Lonely Rose

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I myself stand alone,

In the field where her flowers use to grow.

Looking down at dirt patches,

Hearing sorrow filled words of passer-by’s,

Knowing full well why the others did cry.

As I stand where she too once had,

Standing where our lives remained spent,

I wilt as the petals once had,

I droop as my torments commence.

Take that of my dying last breaths,

Hold hands with those who need no regrets,

Give pity to men who fall slow,

Reach out, deep breath,

Let go the rose.

Hours longer, days of night,

Fire burns, that ice is bright.

Her hand holds cold,

Hear the beating of the lost and forgotten soul,

Hear the cart, come to take all.

As I myself stand alone,

Watching as others do fall slow,

I am living without regret,

Holding your dying breaths.

Look at me and you reflect,

Why you hold her petals spent,

I alone hold the rose,

As am I the walker,

Of the lonely road.

Feminine power

Be it a day of nights in which many men have fallen upon the beauty of her reflection. As light now does dim into a shimmering glow of despair, she arises to lay her sights upon such foolishly doomed men, who even but now gaze gracefully unaware of the dangers they lusted towards. With the swift swish of her golden locks crossing each doomed souls shadow, she pauses; as if awaiting guidance from another, a hand to lead, a friend to trust. Though as quick as she had froze did her screams of fright and hunger for passion expel from her lungs. Swooned had these men been, so over indulged in her beauty to take note of her form, a form in which she had total control as men such as these be men of man's creation, a puppet for the beautiful to utilise as they see fit. Without a contest even being granted, she had won. Now the last breaths of such lustful men shall be her prize, though weak from their bonds of mortality they will only supply a moderate excretion of ecstasy on her part. Though at lest an excretion it shall be.