• The rose sat still upon its bed of thorns
    A spot of blood on a misting dark night.
    Two lips slowly part, a dew drop to mourn,
    A blossom curled in to hide its fright.

    Stone casts the buds of this petaling life,
    So warming, the heartbeat before the cold.
    Such endless, never pausing, halting strife,
    A wounded smile drowned near, teardrops behold.

    So sing a gentle melody, fake words
    Out towards un-listening plains, and hear
    The reverberation of your
    Fight, which reigns between two mournful ears.

    But thorns dig deeper than leaves once engaged,
    The care is not present, let silence wage.