Of sleepless meadows,
and cold, seething blades,
the last rose blossoms,
in the desert's cruel shade.
Lachrymose falls
to shadow's black crimson,
while its thorns cry out,
"Why won't they listen?"
The rose screams and shouts,
crying sweetly for its heart,
but vines choke it gleefully,
dooming it from the start.
Gun barrels and swords,
with dirt spewing everywhere,
and sadistic corpses fall
without a single care.
The sounds of their loved ones
still beckon them home.
But that love means nothing,
when you know you'll die alone.
