Watching the clouds from a field of roses
thinking of harsh winter's wind as it silently dozes.
From my place among the roses I admire a rose bud,
Small and dark resembling a warm drop of blood.
Ignore the thorns and the bright red streaks
creating puddles before tiny crimson creaks.
Blood stained roses mark my final bed
while resting undisturbed beneath my head.
Broken and bleeding, the roses are slowly dying,
concealing the truth as they're wilting and crying.
I remain in my place among the roses
as the last little lead dies and my final case closes.