The Field of Roses

Slowly wilted is the rose,
Representing a single life,
Black and frail, along fiends of many,
They are red, glowing, but this one reflects coal.

Spreading the fire of my corruption,
Burning everyone else's beautiful petals,
Turning whats delicious into something demonic,
Whats worse, they blame me for this.

Ashes from the vine, scatter the ground below,
The darkness sweeps in fast,
Covering my life with disgust,
Blossoming stems, show us whats become.

Ian Robert Potapoff