The rose that wilts in the darkness of night crossing my heart and hopes to die in shadow of itself.
Lives beneath the corridors of solitude.
The thorn that pricks the wielding death to die among the living.
To the shatter bones crippled in life grow in dirt and mist.
Alone and cold the weather blows among the soulless sleeping ground.
Year and four ever changing like a timeless ever storm.
The broken hearts the leave behind both cherished and forgotten.
Surviving purposely as nothing to live corrupted in peace.
The rose wilts through the blessings of the earth a few.
Dying black as if darkness has engulfed the planet consumed the inhabitants is hatred, fear, and greed.
And once the energy of such feared and hated is released no rose redder than hell can alter this course.
The course, this path to righteous hell.