there is no beauty in the roses bud to me
the scent lasts no longer than the eager second I clip the stem
the colors of the flower have faded between my black and white stamina
and the green of the roots looses its personality

there is no way to explain infinite unattainable desire
stinging like the only beautiful thing in sight
the only thing that understands me in the flowers nature
her beautiful thorns
your beautiful mind

in which I wish to press my frozen fingers upon
even if that means bleeding
in the moment of risking to brake the cold within me