To the world unknown,
Be beautiful,
With great expanses of green,
Filled with flowers unseen,
Unicorns and the unreal animals.

Be gentle and kind,
Have no harsh weather or natural disasters,
Not too much sunlight,
I don't want sunburns,
Not too much snow,
I don't want to catch a cold,
Not too much rain,
I don't want flood.
Just adequate,
The way I like it.

To the world unknown,
Be filled with beautiful souls and beautiful people,
With no violence or war,
Where people die of old age,
Not of sickness or diseases,
Nor of poison or venom.

To the world unknown,
I know you're not real,
But sometimes I wish you'd exist once in a while,
Because sometimes I need a break.
Sometimes. Because other times, Earth seems a lot more awesome,
Beautiful also,
And I haven't seen the half of it,
It may not be perfect as in the beginning,
But to an imperfect being such as myself,
You would only interest me for a while,
In the long run you'd be boring.

To the world unknown,
You cannot exist,
Because I don't have the power to make you exist.
I don't have the power to make you exist because
The I am that I am has made it so,
Because the world He has created,
The one I live in,
The one that actually exists,
Is more beautiful than you.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
The world will drown in blood,
Because they seek chaos.

Hellebores are black,
The hell-born are here,
Blood in their wake,
The world in blinding darkness.


Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Hell is empty,
And sin incarnates walk amongst men.


Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Not all are red,
They come in black too.

Love's not wicked, he was;
She's sincere and he wasn't;
Love is patient, you rushed;
She's not angry, he's always mad;
Not violent but he hit you.

Love is beautiful, look in the mirror;
Love is caring, show it;
Love is joy, embrace her;
Love heals, you'll see;
Immortal - "till death do you part";
Love - Is real; you'll know when you find him.

She may have been Rose,
She may have been beautiful,
Wearing the scent of a thousand spring blooms,
And I may have held on too long,
Wearing scars like skin,
Getting wounds that never healed,
Did I realize she was nothing but the thorns of a thousand summers,
That pierced more than my flesh.

Today I bought white roses. She let me in, and like the others, she made me paint them red. In the end, I was as pale as the flowers when I bought them, while they were a rich crimson red that tasted like iron while the scent of blood danced through the air. Nonetheless, it was unnaturally mesmerizing, much like her.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
And facing my fears,
Is just another interlude.