Thorn bud

It's a rose,
a white rose dyed red from thy blood.
A rose so beautiful and fresh,
all because of the soil where it grew;
from the blood of the prince that when touched it was doomed.
A rose with so much love to give, but with so much blood on it's thorns;
what a joke, to give beauty that hurts the one you love.
It's really a bad omen to bleed with a caress,
to feel pain with an act of giving yourself;
what a nature's mistake to bloom only to kill thyself.
From a simple bud, to deceased more-thorns-than-love.

Bring the scissors,
bring them autumm,
bring the snow,
bring the torchs.
Whichever flower brings death with thy smell:
it must be cut,
it must be slain,
it must be done.