The Crimson Rose

The crimson rose bud is tightly closed.

Of its past other flowers don't really know.

Crystalline tears surrounding the bud.

Beautiful butterflies fly around, also the color of blood.

Butterflies, bees, other flowers an time,

All united try to open it up pretending to be kind.

The bud opened up little by little into a beautiful rose.

Everyone greeted it and held it close.

It felt happy and saw how much it had missed,

When its happiness long ago had ceased to exist.

One day somebody tried to take it out.

But he pricked his fingers with the thorns; too many to count.

The blood drops invisible upon the rose crimson red.

Darkened blood covered his hands as he bled.

The rose began to wilt with painful regret...

Wishing it was never there to begin with, and forget.

The skies became dark as teardrops began to fall.

Flowers drank the tears...in the garden a broken doll.

Soon the sun showed bright again after the rain,

But the rose was sad, afraid, and full of pain.

It remains closed for a long time and more to come.

Will it ever open again to anyone?