In the lay of the land
the rose lies.
Dead by its own hand
the regretful cries.
Slit its wrist
red sap bled.
Guilt is a cyst
be on my head.
Nothing is true
sad card overplayed.
Stop whining the blues
you chose your bed.
"Poets, priests and politicians..." I fancy myself one, I almost became one, and hope never to enter the field of evil schemes and broken dreams...So I will stick to the first entry in the quote. It could be good, middling or brilliant. You be the judge; I will have the last say.