Red Rose

In the garden of the dead you'll find a rose so red, not red with beauty but red with hate Withering away in a constant state binded by burdens that forever bleed. Begging to bloom but can never succeed. Rain can try to wash away the blood, the crimson liquid mixes with the mud. Breeding more seeds to summon such pain, feeding the greed for personal gain. Soon the whole garden will be covered in red, but until that day I still am not dead.