In the nursery, walls once sweetly hued,
Now drip with pink like flesh renewed.
A cradle rocks with no one near—
Its lullaby a hiss of fear.

The roses bloom in shades obscene,
Veins pulsing through their silken sheen.
Petals curl like lips that grin,
Hiding teeth and blood within.

A powder puff, a porcelain face,
A mirror cracked in perfect grace.
Pink ribbons tied around the throat—
A gift, a noose, a final note.

The cotton candy sky turns raw,
As dusk reveals what daylight saw:
A girl in pink with hollow eyes,
Dragging dreams where silence dies.

She paints the world in blushing tones,
With fingertips like sharpened bones.
Each stroke a scream, each shade a sin—
This horror wears a gentle grin.

John Stone