My bed of roses,
an illusion of exquisite mellifluous exhilaration.
In reality a sharp bitter thorn in my side.
I've made my bed,
And I shall lay in it.
Leaving an impression
of silk and cotton.
Leaving a heady scent
of my blood.
Flowerlike in every sense
ravingly soft and gentle,
deceiving all and everyone by its
appearance, smell and appealing promises,
A specific kind of
Heaven or Hell
on Earth's hard crusted floor.

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