“Desert flowers, all what is left is their thorns”
cut through me as a butcher’s knife.
I tear apart as If I were paper thin.
Staring at the limitless hourglass.
All the time I have,
all the time I have lost,
to foolish truths and lies.
Nothing means anything anymore,
when it falls back in time.
all what is left is their thorns.
As the pedals come off the
majestic roses seem all
of a sudden as a mirage.
How was I blinded by their beauty?
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