I brought roses for a friend,
and hoped not to make amends.
Sunken in the Earth,
he lies on thorns we once grew.
Left without our mirth,
returned to grounds we once knew.
Organic shackles,
binding his husk to the floor.
My love still crackles;
our blossom is just a sore.
He sobs tears of oil,
how else would they be on fire?
Cause’ I brought the soil,
yet didn’t mean for the rose to birth the briar.
And ere the last stem could impede,
he spoke through the weed,
“Friend, I’ve lived with pride,
for we had grown the best rose of anyone who’s ever died.”
