Ours Is a Monstrous Love
Our love is not of lavender,
Soft and sweet and tender.
Our love is a withered rose
With thorns as sharp as knives
That pierce our skin when we touch.
Our love is not painted in pastels
That softly show our gentle nature.
Our love is painted in blacks and reds
Which bring forward our uglier shades
In a seductive explosion of ebony and crimson.
Our love is not made for parks,
Where all is bright and children dance.
Our love is made to be hidden away
In a musty house of blood and despair.
For ours is a monstrous love.
Soft and sweet and tender.
Our love is a withered rose
With thorns as sharp as knives
That pierce our skin when we touch.
Our love is not painted in pastels
That softly show our gentle nature.
Our love is painted in blacks and reds
Which bring forward our uglier shades
In a seductive explosion of ebony and crimson.
Our love is not made for parks,
Where all is bright and children dance.
Our love is made to be hidden away
In a musty house of blood and despair.
For ours is a monstrous love.
♠ ♠ ♠
First poem I've ever written, did it in a few minutes. Is inspired by Lucille Sharpe's speech in Crimson Peak. I would love constructive criticism, I know that it's miles from being perfect!