Rose

In these plains dark, dreary, dim,
Displeasing pains were sharp, but weary to him.
He feigns sleep to keep flowers fresh,
But flowers rot — and too, his flesh.
Deep to the bone he, ever alone,
Let poison seep from toxic mold grown
'Till, cold for hours, he did freeze,
Praying to thorned flowers on his knees,
Praying to powers 'till his heart did sieze.

In these plains of darkness chilled,
Held in chains, hearkened wills,
He, killed by prayer to thorns,
Knelt to the beast of scythe and horns.
Fare of life dealt as he, a feast, consumed,
And he felt the beast's stare as it loomed;
It's jaws as it tore his rotten body and devoured;
The horned beast's saliva as it bore in him with power;
The hateful nectar of a thorned and fateful flower.