Solitary Suffering
What if roses bloomed
At the taste of my blood;
Apples grow as I
fall from their tree.
At the taste of my blood;
Apples grow as I
fall from their tree.
What if meadows flock
with wild flower and bud
at the sight of my
weak mud-stained knees.
What if I picked flowers
by my own gravestone,
bunches on bunches,
swarmed with bees.
I want to see all the life
I suffer for;
I want to know
it’s not only for me.