An Old Piece of a Poem I've Wrote

When the hands you hold so dearly are dirtied with blood

Will the the meaning of their affection change against your skin

Will there be any difference at all for you

Will you be scared of her now

When the white olenaders are painted red 

Will you pull your fingers away

Will you leave those sinful hands alone, in the middle of poisonous leaves

Please, don't dig out the sins that lay beneath her roots 

But don't withhold your soft lips from the delicate petals