Dying Rose

Her own blood shall paint her lip
Where the poison of her lies shall drip
And preying upon a single thorn
Where all her lies and pain are born

Planted in the ashen grave
In which such death had hoped to save
The slowly dying, the fastly growing
Of the flower that is all but knowing

The tombstone that would come to see
This rose had bloomed to rapidly
Together in death its sorrow grew
As did the rose, a day anew.

A single rose that had sought
A love that wasn't all for naught
A poison that would slowly seep
Into the rose's stem so deep

And the tombstone is the one that knows
The blackened petals of that dying rose.