A city of Roses
Poetry
A city of roses,
Bright red littered with little green stems attached to thorns,
Thorns shaped into the small geometrically perfect triangles just like the hearts of it’s inhabitants,
Each salty red leaf gently falls for every change of the street light, shot of a gun against a dog, and stray cat unaware of the flaring white lights above it’s small body,
Streets painted in rock cement, cheap scrap metal iron box cars, cameros, and rich ferrari’s threaten the small faded yellow line in the middle of the road,
Houses abandoned with carboard windows, inhabited houses built out of shambles, and perfect lawns out strecth the roses domain,
They say greed is like a rose,
Too much paper greens buys perfect lying teeth, ungrateful smiles, wicked ideas of justice, and hearts of lonely,
They say dead roses,
Are the children thrown to suicide by a needle laced with white, Tears forgotten by the man with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and a shaking fist, anguish at the young adult holding a riffle at boys, and girls trying to learns,
They say the city of dead,
Is what’s behind the looking the glass.
