As I tread this path with prickles & thorns,
With fluttering butterflies in my gut,
With blurry visions of vague horizons,
Failed to notice, I was stuck in a rut.

I reached a small pond that mirrored my face,
I see roses, patches of red petals.
I was enamored with it as I trace,
The roses that formed a maze to my pulse.

It was blood, I was dying painlessly.
These thorns were shrapnel from a hand grenade,
The feeling of butterflies was numbness,
My blurred vision was from a ruptured vein,
I fell flat, dying, laying on the grass,
Please, my love, end me with a coup de grâce.