Garden of the Dead

Tending my dead garden
Watching days go by
Withering in white winter
Blood ice tears I cry
Sitting by my headstone
I watch a black rose bloom
It’s the symbol of my fate
The symbol of my doom
Wilting daisies tremble
Beside buttercups of ash
Tulips full of poison
Open up a gash
Dried grapes, bitter raisins
Bruised apples, rotted through
Walking down the paths
In this old place of new
Pink ribbons lie
Across my arms and chest
Never again seen
In my hour of rest
Now cold and pale
But once crimson red
All goes unnoticed
In the garden of the dead