Rhys Owens Poems
Freezing, alone, a girl within herself tends the ground;
Knowing the water does nothing but freeze, till around
The turn of the year, winter gives way to spring again,
Where cold, distant ice sees to mending; flowers begin
To grow; their petals moist with rain, and tears, left over
From cruel storms bold enough to haunt this cold December.
A hope in Hell, for those that still have the strength to dream
Of Heaven here on what seems to be a barren earth.
Opening her mouth, she still could not muster a scream,
And could not bear the memory of love's distant ...
only the women are loved.
with men, it's only the madness,
in and of its self that's used.-
and we are literary, too.
but you don't write it down
or even think it, any more.
it's just a desperate kind of feel...
yes, only women bleed.