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