Rose

These thorns, they guard this heart well
Maybe too well for this heart lies alone
It bleeds a brilliant shade of red
A crimson color unlike any I've known
It drips from the tips of these thorns
Dripping until forever more
Onto pages upon pages of blank paper
Devoid of empty words or hollow promises
Of haunting memories or panging regrets
The color, it bleeds through they're perfection
Until they become stained and worthless
Unwillingly discarded into the darkness
But in these shadows, the crimson deepens
And becomes something worth feeling
Incapable of worth but more than stricken tears
The words of crimson, they become clear
Devoid of light, they find new meaning
A plea from a lone rose held captive by its thorns
Stapled to this sleeve and left vulnerable
Bleeding tales in some shape or form
And a longing for someone to be something more
These thorns, they guard far too well
The tales of this heart become difficult to tell