The Rose
The rose so delicately picked
Pricks and bleeds its life blood from the thorn,
The droplets marring the green grass;
Tingeing the blades with death.
Watch your hands,
Don’t get caught.
Life lessons are learnt
As lies are taught.
A world with no morals
And a hell with no bounds,
Luring the damned
As the demons dance round.
Petals turn to dust
As the fire of depravity
Turns morality to rust.
As the years unfold
The story is told
Of how the roses colour
Came to be.
A fair young maiden
In the fields does wait
For her brave young hero
Who has being slaying enemies in battle.
He did arrive, wounded badly
And hardly alive.
The maiden ran to him as he did collapse
And held him in her arms.
As his life slipped away.
Thru sheer despair
The young maiden did weep.
She cried for so many years
Her eyes had bled,
Making the ground so wet
That the flowers she did weep upon
Soaked up her stained tears
And that is why
The rose is red.
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