War of the Rose
Drenched upon the battle field
Under silver weapons wield
Misdirection her only shield
The wildest of roses grew
Upon the blush of her pretty head
Stained with what men had bled
White petals puckered in brilliant red
The Whitest wild rose glimpsed hell
When the battle scene lie deaf
And not a soul to love was left
Moonlight filled the tears she wept
And the Rose pitied the man
Winter came, life kissed death
With the sweep of a snowy breath
Pale hands of the woman Macbeth
Washed White to red to grey
Well summer come and summer go
No eye that lays upon her knows
Her blushing color is to show
How red is to remember
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