The discolouration of a rose,
Tragic. Decaying.
The blood red of it’s harsh thorn
In my aching breast.
The harsh reality,
Though I loved natures gift,
Feeding with my tears,
I loved too much.
And now it drowns me,
The salt stinging my open wound.
You see, all beauty must end.
The betrayal.
No matter how much you
nurse its life,
mortality is inevitable.
And so, now you leave me.
The petals of our memories falling
On the rain drenched floor.
The moonlit sky darkening
my perception of your colour.
But I hear your screams,
and with blood stained hands I cut
The ribbon of what we once were.
Your head falling to the floor.
A pretty rose no more.
Photo credit: Alex Winward
AmyLavernia 
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