this rose unfolds itself
to rotten wilted petals
what once was brightest red
have become sharp nettles
a flower of truest beauty
now with scent of death
how akin to it i am
the tragedy of macbeth
that bravest man's story
of a slip into temptation
damned all the way home
from love's infatuation
like the King himself i feel
agast at what i have done
i split myself wide open
solely for the one
and let these insides rot
to the tune of 1612
simply for the fact
of what your gaze delved
with spring around the corner
and these loathsome dead leaves gone
change i feel i have;
this new dawn
into exactly what
i know i cannot say
for does a caterpillar know
what happens when the cocoon decays?
the butterfly that springs forth
is made from its past pain
much like i aim to be
when free of her constrain