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A red rose sprung hope into his journey.
Passion never seen, brought upon by an everlasting kiss.
He tasted the world, from the peaks of mountains to the depths of valleys.
His love, as fresh as April air, was documented by all.
Far and distant, yet soothing to the soul,
like a sapphire sky on a horizon far beyond
a hundred snow-covered hills where that red rose lies.
Frolic in the summer as though fall will never come.
In the heat of a moment, at the peak of his passion
a man is blissfully blinded; too much so to see the damage
he has done to that red rose that still remains.
Left with a murmur... The screams, beaten to death,
remain as a deafening quiet. His voice has fallen astray,
much like the pedals of that weathered rose
that has seen better days.
A dead rose now lies upon his rusty metallic tomb
as a cold winter breeze gives way to memories that float in the thin air…
Memories as sweet as the melody of a red rose in spring, bursting into life.