A rose's thorn, the skin is torn
so simple in its making
the blood, it falls, your spirit calls
as the seams are breaking
a pain released, so carefully pieced
together here, it's silent
though as it tears, the thorn prepares
as blood runs forth so violent
cascading love, the rose above
crimson as this bleeding
watching though, the blood it flows
and yet this rose it's feeding
upon her leaves, the blood recedes
a sweet forgiveness cries
with tears that froze, upon this rose
a monument for lies.

the beauty of this twilight
suspended here in time
like weeping of the children
their spirit, here confined
condensing all the feeling
into a blackened pool
bubbling with emotions
deemed to feel too cruel
ugly in this grieving
the velvet lost again
now rough within this stillness
a life begun to end
gracious here in killing
the silent prayers of all
they listen to her speaking
but cannot hear her call
so what's become of twilight
in this world of pain
there's nothing left to live for
for hope's become profane