The Rose

December 3, 2010
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The small flower in the corner of the room
When bloomed utters an intoxicating sweet smell
All falls for its seductive powers
The gift of its evil
The deep blood red color
The color of all its victims
Broken from its power
Up and down the stem are the thorns
The weapon of the beauty
Waiting for its prey to come and snatch the flower
Then finding pain in its wake
The rose, such a quiet flower
As power indefinable
Sickeningly sweet, unable to overpower
With death written in the core





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