A Perched Rose
A rose perched itself on an,
Open window still.
Placed by the fractured hands, of a lover whose bitter lips,
Turned sweet by the first glance of its crimson petals,
Yet the rose slowly decayed.
Decayed and flew out the window and onto the snow,
Where it gently laid and bleeds out a brownish crimson color.
Forming a shackled heart onto the snow,
The once rusting petals turn a pure white and decore this shackled heart.
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