A night still, yet full of pain,
a night of terror of everlasting rain,
falls gently upon dreams of dreams,
upon hopes and life, so it seems.
The cries of a Rose bud blooms,
a cry, trapped in many tombs.
It echoes through time in darkness still,
in a world of hurts and timely ill.
Purge the dark, the timeless hour,
how therefore safe to be a flower.
A flower by name of Rose;
a tear drop of many woes.
So saddened of the future past;
fear of dark, the shadow cast.
A Rose cries forevermore,
another thorn for her to bore.
But for every petal that must fall,
a new thorn bares all,
Whether be or whether not,
a journey time long forgot.
A journey, soon to end,
in a season of fall, time amend.