There she lived, no one would forgive
the crimes done to her, the scratches
the scorn. She learned to hide alone
in her room a sanctuary where
she could weep. Promises to keep, before she
lies down to sleep,
With each tear, the petals fall down
her blood is on her dress, her crown.
Here she cries, the Queen of Thorns,
Where she slept, the pain under the rug,
sufficiently swept. The pain from a
thousand small cuts, the shame from
anyone seeing them, the game of no ifs,
ands, or buts.
A star is falling in the moonlight
red on pale skin, crimson silk white.
Here she dies, my Queen of Thorns,
Her life a portrait of passion, no one
remembers to mourn, She was my one
true love, the one who was supposed to
become my wife, She exists only there
between the moments of joy and the darkness
of strife.
Her lips purchase the air she breathes
my lies, our love, which one did she believe?
She tries, the Queen of Thorns,
To stop in the gallows, with a nod to rope,
I will die in my curse, cowardice without hope.
She pauses to listen, she turns to the east.
Her rescue will come from the villain, the
Beast.
A tale is told, almost as old as time.
of love and sacrifice, suffering for joy sublime.
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