The reddest rose, that twirls in the moonlight to the dirt path
below, at one point was as green as the grass around it.

And the reddest shade, on the floor of the house, was just as red inside the body as outside.

I wonder if the rose could come to terms that it would one day wither and flick off the budding bush, to the ground below.

Just as easy as it might be to see it myself, I don't. I don't. I don't. I don't. I don't.

There's something that won't; it never leaves my mind.

Wouldn't we have ever been closer?

That was fun last night, sometime we should do it again.

But I think I won't last for "again".

Sorry, but it needs to end. I cannot have another love to die like a rose bush to be left as thorns in a forest.

I cannot hold my arms up any longer as the Devil cuts me and the Angels above watch, popcorn in hand.

They do enjoy a good show!

So cut away. Hopefully when I am nothing the paper will read a few verses. But for now the verse on the Radio as it falls onto the tiled floor will do.