Fingers clasp one thorned rose,
each point pricks apart the skin
An Aurora gesture may it look,
not romantic, not her kin.
Bites of wolves are never pretty,
looked upon with dismay
Roses filled with eager poison,
mustn't try another day.
Seeping through a narrow bloodstream,
twisted leaves mingle fresh
Held and soothed a wandering wish,
to lay back in the crèche.
