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The Rose
Just when you thought it was over
There’s always a looming cloud
Stop repeating crimson and clover
Your smirk and your brow are too proud
Suffer not those who weep at the moon
Curled up and in helpless enclosure
Every face turns toward the sun
Every flower is beautiful in its composure
The anger, the wild and stunning red
So deep you cannot help but stare
Sulking at petals, picking at thorns
You would think her almost dead
But though she cradles all of his temptations
A day will come, a spark will die forlorn
Oh, and what a tangled web they weaved
However, the Rose will bloom once more
