The Rose

The roses' thorns cut through my skin,
A drop of blood falls down;
My heart is broken, my soul is burnt...
I'm falling to the ground.

The rose you gave me long ago,
I hold onto it still;
A love that was lost long ago;
A love for which I'd kill...

I know I'll never let it go,
This rose composed of blood...
The more and more I miss you
Means the deeper the thorns go.

You kissed me on the cheek,
and then you handed me this rose...
And even on my deathbed,
I will never let it go...

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Thank you,
~Stephen White