To Roses

A scarlet tear drips o'er the thorn, As she runs her stained fingernails along the edge. The blade digs a little deeper: Beautiful like her lips that speak so silently; In the irony of a moment, she fades. As a summer rosebud in blossom penetrates; The starlit sunlight's gasp against twilight's chill; A sharp cold turns to the flu. Dances of fever and anger o'er the horizon: Blood splatters across the sky. After the battle of her dreamy cowboys against bison; She stares up in wonder at this moment. As she continues to caress the blade; That lovely rosebud cuts a little deeper into the flesh. She blesses the curse of roses.