To Roses
A scarlet tear drips o'er the thorn,
As she runs her stained fingernails along the edge.
The blade digs a little deeper:
Beautiful like her lips that speak so silently;
In the irony of a moment, she fades.
As a summer rosebud in blossom penetrates;
The starlit sunlight's gasp against twilight's chill;
A sharp cold turns to the flu.
Dances of fever and anger o'er the horizon:
Blood splatters across the sky.
After the battle of her dreamy cowboys against bison;
She stares up in wonder at this moment.
As she continues to caress the blade;
That lovely rosebud cuts a little deeper into the flesh.
She blesses the curse of roses.
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