You tore the petals off of flowers,
and shot words like arrows into the air.
They lingered for a moment,
before breaking through fragile armor.
You are the sweet-smelling rain on a breeze
in the distance, that turned into a storm,
knocking down trees in a path of destruction.
You tried to be spring and mend the broken
and bring it back to life,
but you are a bitter winter, breathing an icy
death on what is living.
You pray for warmth, but your clouds have
pushed the sun’s rays away.
Now you’re a cemetery.
Your only friends are memories.
You sit there alone,
cursing the pain of your merciless mistakes,
that cut through you with your own
crimson covered sword.