A puddle formed,
A deep scarlet red morphed,
Beneath me it lay;
Matched the red of my cheeks,
The red of my shoes,
The red of my nails,
There it lay,
The dark engulfing red of the rose,
Such a gorgeous sight,
Such a strong might,
Covered in the pale white snow,
But what is that?
Dripping from my palm?
Is it the same red?
The colour of wine?
It can’t be
It was so free,
Such beauty cannot be so harmful;
It was the thorn of the rose that cut me so deep.