The crimson rose stood tall in the garden.
Proud of its redness and virility.
It's thorns prepared to defend against foes.
The petals strutting their beauty to us.
Her eyes couldn't help but study the rose.
She admired the stems strength and its thickness.
The crimson petals danced before her eyes.
The scent of the flower begged to be plucked.
She knew taking the rose would prick her hand.
Her eyes roamed to daffodils and daisies.
None stood erect and vital like the rose.
They all seemed pale and lifeless by the rose.
Her fingers grazed the petals of the rose.
The silky softness hypnotized her hand.
The touch made her long to possess the rose.
Her hand glided down to the thorny stem.
They poked her palm like needles and she bled.
She pulled her hand back and studied the drops.
Such sharp pain inflicted by the flower.
She resented herself for loving it.
She grabbed it and ripped it up from the ground.
The thorns forced their way inside of her hand.
She yelped and let the crimson rose fall down.
The rose seemed to have its strength sapped away.
It now laid flimsy and weak before her.
The shine disappeared from the rose petals.
Like Sampson cut down by his Delilah.
Tears formed in her eyes and grief filled her heart.
