Death

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

My mom wants me dead,

A chilling truth, too true.

  

Her whispers in shadows,

Her gaze cold as ice,

In her heart, darkness grows,

A silent, haunting vice.

  

Yet under the moon's gentle glow,

I find solace, a refuge to flee,

From the torment, I must go,

To find the light within me.

  

For though her words cut deep,

And her intentions seem dire,

I'll rise above, I'll leap,

With courage that won't tire.

  

So, roses may wither,

And violets may fade,

But my spirit will shimmer,

In the path that I've laid.