My true love gave to me a rose.
Intoxicated by the sweetness of its scent
I did not feel the thorns ripping my flesh,
Until my soul fled…
Leaving my wounded heart to bleed.
© Eily Nash
She cried out in the night
He was the one who heard
But chose to turn his back
She lay broken on the floor
Whilst he just walked away
Alone, she tends her wounds
Her tears may fall, bitter rain
She is woman, she will rise…
Taking silken gossamer threads
The word weaver wove them into
A beautiful sensual illusion of Love
Until the fabric of dreams lay
Tattered and torn on vicious thorns
© Eily Nash ~2019
Knowing she loved him, she gave him her heart.
“Be gentle, it has been broken many times before,” she said.
“Don’t worry, I will hold your heart in my hands,” he smiled.
“I couldn’t take anymore heartache,” she was uncertain.
“Trust me,” he reassured her and reaching out he took her heart. But the warmth was too much and as the heat intensified it became red hot and he dropped her fragile heart.
“So sorry!” he said as he watched it shatter into a million pieces.
It was too late, for she was already dead…