I wont tell you how I feel. Inside
where the roses see no light.
I know it will make you sad.
I'll keep it to myself, hide it among the thorns,
twisting vines making me sick and tired.
Dry and baron soil unquenchable,
the gardener grieves for the seasons last harvest.
The tear buds are shaking from wooden stems
Drops of rose blood trying to quench the thirst.
A sacrificial death, my own cross yet to bare
Wild blood seeps until all the hurt is gone
Bled from each bloom,
soaking the roots, too late.
It is time to say goodbye
Each rose must be pruned
Hearts left rotting on the ground
Fertilizing a new day's harvest
They will never be the same
no rose as sweet as the one before
yet promise lingers with Spring's fresh hope
That A tiny bud can bring life from death.