Cold wrought iron roses with thorns at rusted razor sharpness,
where the iron bushes entangle each other in hellish embrace
is a screaming woman's face.

Rust red tears glow from empty eye sockets.
Inside her pain-induced open mouth
lies the locking mechanism.

Few living know the secret of such perfect making.
Of cold perfection's sacrifice,
Lips ever shaping a never heard death scream.

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