On my morning stroll; it happened,
I happened to stumble upon, my child,
What is she doing, i asked myself,
So, indeed to answer my curiosity,
I inquired.
Why good morning dear child,
And what a fine day on this side of the mirror,
What brings me this time to your company,
Is a matter of harmless prying,
What is it i spy you doing,
Your hands be red and bloody,
And the roses be an unsightly bouquet,
To whom, may i ask, do you suppose,
Would want a posy fragrance with vomit ?
Oh, child, don't cry, i need not offend,
I thought you would be past the denial,
At least by now,
Yes, as sweet as red roses be, denial is a pretty thing,
Of course, I merely watch others,
Act out this maddening masquerade,
One may not move forward; if stuck in one's past,
But creatures of the Wonderland,
Find no need nor time for this game,
For we hold nothing to which denial can hostage
Look at me child, let me see your eyes,
I dare say, i saw a twinkle of a girl,
I once watched flourish,
Much like your red roses there,
Ah yes, such potential, such beauty, roses yes,
But as much like a rose, starved of life,
I watch them die, time and time,
You receed to your mind i see,
And what comfort will that bring you ?
That White Rabbit cannot ?
I speak only what is done and to be,
And as i did state, your roses are dead,
Whom would want to buy withering weeds,
From a child on it's knees,
Hair drenched in muck, and her hair with splatters,
You know my child, the flowers were just fine,
Before you came along
Doesn't this make us want to reflect,
On what is done and could be so,
If taken the time to watch it grow,
I mean not the roses for this time,
But for my dear girl, sitting in her wane,
You notice i cannot touch you,
For i am on the other side today,
You may merely gaze at this magnificence,
And hope to your God that you can be to,
I am your God, child,
Heaven hath no existance in your world,
Heaven hath no angels in your world,
White Rabbit has the throne,
And he need not wear a crown,
For my white coat should say it all,
I am King of all that is Pure,
Yet, many subjects would ask me,
Why is spend my time, with you,
I have never answered them not never,
Why should i let spawn of dirt; know,
Know, oh yes, Knowing is a wondrous thing,
To have knowledge and reclaim a glory,
That is what i have instore for a child
But for today, it seems,
I cannot reach you past the glass,
You've grown to far from the wonder,
To even feel it burn your sin,
Shall i leave my little treasure ?
To heave her misdeeds and shamefulness,
Pick her pretty flowers for a special no one,
Oh, dear, did i not tell you ?
The roses are dead.
