One Wicked She

She is only one, though boasts of many, are the souls she wracks to breath, out of. She, when it was week, so scared alone with none to see. Her words were such, that made me fear the comming dawn, for it was blind, and could not run away safe haven it had none. It erased many words that it had sun, in which to grow the roses that you breath today. She is of the calf expired, hanging in the tree upside down three weeks. She is the icky worm fat swollen out the shoot of poo returns she burns with fear. She is what every man does dread, when trying to grow a bed of rose to blooms of every shade in color known. She is the weenie worm so fat and swilling known. She is only one....i smiles in you.. :)