The Rose Ghost
Shadows dance behind her silver eyes
The ghost of her beauty struggling to show
A crimson rose amid the rage of thorns
Seemingly pure like the white of snow
Such a stupor of silence hangs above her
But it loses the battle in her mind
The silver key trembling in her ghostly finger
Attempting to lock up the heart inside
Never meant to be open, delicately curled
Her petals shouldn't seem foreign anymore
So she dances, silencing the screaming thorns
Leaving the key, now crimson, on the floor
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