Not Dissimilar In Betrayal

She was nurtured in the Garden of Eden It became her palace, her prison of daydreams. She tended it daily with love. It was her, one true - garden of sacrifice and hope. She watered it faithfully, though sadly Untimely, she didn't know how to care for it. Her prince was a charming dreamer, too. And of the two, he was the true gardener. He planted all kinds of marvellous blooms And took care of all their needs, including hers. The princess grew bored of its beauty And wanted far more design control. Eventually, she rid herself of the prince She hacked furiously at every conspicuous bloom. But each stem she cut grew back twofold, And this went - so on. And so on, etc? Till tired, she took less zeal in her destruction And let blossoms once again freely bloom. They all bloomed the purist white imaginable Trumpet vines, daisies and roses, Magnolia blooms of all unthinkable sizes. All with blood-splattered crimson edges. A garden thought dead even here doesn't die It lingers, ailing, waiting for curative changes.