Violets still bleed

In this dark room I sit
contemplating the darkness of my shadow.
Where once there was ultra-violet perfection
I see nothing but shards of myself

Lying there like some corpse
awaiting it's transformation
waiting for the winds of change
to melt it away like dust in the desert.

What grievances are there to ponder
in this corner of my soul
where once there was the laughter
of innocent youth, I see in it-

the scraggly rags of a life
torn by social dogmas and sorrows
draped in the sheer brutality
of misunderstandings and mistrust.

At what point did that pretty violet
become deprived of it's fleshy youth?

If forgiveness were the scent
a violet gave off after being murdered
then ah, many may rest in peace
alas, violets still bleed.

Still claw at the last dregs
of dignity and hope long lost.
They still cling to dreams
knowing death's kiss shall come

swiftly
silently
secretly
maliciously.