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.