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Our roads are different?
Our roads are different,
Mine silent, secluded, ignored
cobble-stone and covered
with strangling vines,
nursing red roses with thorns
that in time, everytime, It appears
when I think, pricks, and
with each prick I fall, fast, flat
on the ground. My face with round
charcoal bruises
and yet, your road seems to be...
Of marble, slick, sleek, and bold.
Your air of illumnince unfolds
where white lilies dance with you
down the path, where, fellows line up
mesmorized by your unflawed beauty.
You absorb their snobbery as if,
without notice, there wouldn't be anymore.
For at the end of the road, the lilies die,
and you, along with the marbled path, cracks. By Christina
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