My mouth reeks
of rotting roses,
decaying like acrylic oils
painted in memory of failed aspirations;
fading through canvas,
but retaining a sardonic touch of brilliance.
they told me
to stay strong, be proud.
be the lion who walks
through fire, simply
because he can.
make your bed full of thorns
so you can wear the scars
of how fiercely you loved,
that passion you bled.
I taught myself
not to cry
not to let a single emotion
pass by that empty void
that they call my eyes.
But now I feel them,
those tears.
Tears that let me know
the iron shell I’ve created
holds a glimmer frailty.
We all want to be the lion
who stands tall
Who wears courage
on his chest like a scarlet badge.
Others keep rotting till
there's nothing left
but a blank canvas.
Lions to Lambs.
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