Bleeding Rose

Bleeding Rose

As I start to see the purple river,

once again my tears are crying.

The breeze chills my back as I shiver,

another victim of you lying.

So I press the cold heart steel,

to endless flowing purple.

Am I supposed to feel,

the draining of my purple?

So this is how the young rose bleeds,

bleeding from the sick petals.

More blood depression feeds,

as if to rid the heavy metals.

Pricking a rose's thorn,

will always be of guilt,

as if to say you were torn,

by something that's unbuilt.

Depression flows through the thorns.

This is how a rose bleeds

and yet no one will mourn,

because the rose will always bleed.

Quenching for thirst though the rose remains black,

with a drop of innosense it does not change,

but without a such given slack,

the rose will be a forever strange.

Pricking me frozen in time I melt within,

the purple from my veins pours from the stem.

The edges of the petals start to roll and dry.

As the rose bleeds, it will surely, shortly die.