Sweet Dreams

Thorns

Thorns

My sweet little rose,

Held up to my nose.

Smelling of something sweet,

Your buds, so pretty and neat.

I close my eyes and drift away,

Trying to block out what they say.

My sweet little rose,

Stuck in the perfect pose.

Together we will fly,

Before you start to die.

But your thorns are so sharp,

Yet fragile like strings of a harp.

You give me bliss,

My very first kiss,

With those deathly points,

Passion weakened my very joints.

As the blood flows,

 My darkness starts to glow.

It drips down my arm,

For a second, there's no harm.

Then comes the pain,

After the sting of broken vein.

My razor is my flower,

Because the pain takes all my power.