Sweet Bloody Rose

Sweet Bloody Rose, pricked a finger with her thorn. Red as a ruby blood pours forth, covering the beautiful blossom. This blood does not help, nor does it harm. Though it aggravates the one who was indeed harmed. Falling down, down to the ground. The beautiful bloom is dropped on the ground. Left behind, not wanted, nor needed. Betrayed and not trusted for the weapon that was grown. Was it her fault? For growing the thorn? A natural thing could not be so bad, could it? But indeed, look where it has gotten her. Hurt and be left. There is no more need for the blood covered bloom. Not knowing what she did, but hurt nevertheless, she feels the slow pain of withering and dying. Turning to the dust from which another of her kind shall bloom. Maybe the next will do no harm? Maybe the next bloom will know better than to grow the thorn that aggravated the one who was indeed harmed by the first. But going against what is natural is seemingly impossible. So the thorn will grow, and the bloom will hope, that the one who was aggravated by the first will not return to smell her alluring scent, or smile at her growing beauty. She hopes that no one will see her in her living shame, so she may live in peace and not pain until the time, when she too, withers and dies and returns to the dust. For the cycle goes on, and there is hope that the one from the first shall not return. But that wish may not be granted for the beauty of the blossom and the alluring scent.