ice-creamy

Red Garden I stand in my red garden, Land where hearts of many have harden, where cursed words were said, Cursing the wicked dead. If they could only see what I have seen, then maybe they would know what I mean, So much war, so much battle, Can't you hear the corpses' bone rattle? Too many hungers gone unfed, in the garden of red. Why? You ask, It's the garden of red, Its soaked, tainted in the blood they shed, Twining vines and blooming flowers, Replace the need and urge for power, Can't you hear, the war drums beating louder? Good intentions turned sour, so may bullets to the head, in my garden of red.

Another old writing