Hands dyed crimson, not from petals of rose.
A thorn, no longer of big concern,
for mind is diverted to thought
Of trepidation and war.

Oh sweet humanity,
has bloomed with the privilege of
thought and sanity,
of faculties to unite, instead are fickle
and cut wounds deeper than measly prickle.

Be it power, wealth, greed
or caste, colour, creed.
It is like wielding a medieval sword
in a modern war that wasn’t meant to happen at all.
Call them tools of anachronism. Their existence
unfortunate, unnecessary in our present.

A cushioned seat behind a screen, typing
words laced with malice and acting so coy.
Wounds inflicted go deeper than skin,
both self and instinct soiled.
That bone of contention
has now become a dog’s chew toy.

Let nostalgia swell from only the sweet smell
and not the blood trickling down the stem.
And retain memories of only soft petal
and not the pricking bristles.
And simply cherish a world where we nourish the good
and protect and care for every neighbourhood.

The petals may have darkened with woes,
but potpourri is better when made from wilted rose.

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