I'll be the first poetic genius to put up a poem then... I think the rhythm is a bit off at time. Suggestions?
A hand reaches out to grasp the flower
from whence came the first death and sin,
a smile without fangs, disguising heartbreak,
a lie dripping in sweet, sweet honey.
And so I swear, it is my hand,
that dares to touch the fire.
With a garner, shining bright,
like a dying knight's old armour.
Wearing down, with petals new,
so delicate to touch.
and yet no eyes will cry the blood
of what was slaughtered here.
This holy ground, I class as mine,
with harmonized alleigance,
where soon a rainfall will destroy
the sanity of soldiers.
A hand reaches out to grasp the flower
from whence came the first death and sin,
a smile without fangs, disguising heartbreak,
a lie dripping in sweet, sweet honey.