The withering rose I hold perishes
not because death wanders in this night,
though behold the reason to believe and cherish:
lost forever never to return with such sorrowful plight.
It's incardine beauty fades to the deep likeness of blood -
seething so openly upon this ghastly cold moonlet air,
velvety petals push away from this flower once good
(where love was kind and passion so fair)
Tears flow from me as watery rains once caressed this flower,
bathing it with the joy of my painful merciless cry -
and yet my bouts go unheard as the blossom I hold is sour,
lame of knowing - as it is versed in the knowings of the how to die.
It is indeed true my heart is but a rose come true,
as in the end there is nothing which one can compare to.

-- Phoenix Laika Rising-Wolf