Poisonous Flowers of Violence - White Ward

No prophets left to see the crime

No one feels the pain done

Like a mountain stream

iolence devours the stone

Inglorious powers burn the crown

They meanly crash the roots

I will never forget your boots

On my face

I grow a tree out of the blackest seeds

I water it with violent deeds

And when I harvest all the thoughts

I turn them into bloody spots

My tree springs up of all the dark

I cherish it with silent notes

And then, I harvest all its fruits

My needs are never satisfied