Bed of Roses,
bed of Thorns,
bed of lepers ashes.
So many lye and wallow in,
what bears on them as scratches.
Empty tears,
hallowed screams,
burdens for their mother.
And if by crosses which are burned,
never will they seize their turn.
For all that is,
for all its worth,
for any bit thats given.
Some are cursed that walk this earth,
until their death from day of birth.
saint cynosure ( Ken Bennight )
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cursed-4/
