• Vibrant are its petals, red as blood.
    Sharp are its thorns, like the blade of a knife.
    It lies with silent beauty, gorgous in the moonlight.
    Dormant it stands, as soft winter falls.
    Proud it blossoms, alone in its open clearing.
    The flower of love, a symbol of passion.
    Like a feather, it dances gracefully in the wind.
    Its fame grows, rising to the top.
    Each petal a promise, then breaks and falls.
    The flower of death, layed atop the fallen.
    Dark is its history, marked by tragedy.