Her heart is as a flower in the mud
Which heavy booted feet have trod and marred
and pressed in deeper with each passing thud.
Her eyes are velvet petals, under guard
And veined like purple scars. Her silent gaze
Has the cool depth of verdant bowers
That grieve the advent of electric days.
And yet, she has no tenderness for flowers
But tears their leaves to tatters with her nails
And frays green stems. She leaves the roses shorn.
Their crowns of scarlet fall in scattered trails
Around her skirts – as if a love-struck thorn
Had loosed a flood of drops of blood to lie,
And to the lure of beauty testify.