A field of roses,
so precious they glow,
so old their timeless,
begging to be picked,
their sickly sweet scent,
intoxicating you,
pulling you in,
untile your trapped in the pleasureful torment of their thorns,
though small they may be,
they still prick and pull,
draining your life force,
untile all you feel is voidless bliss and the cycle starts anew.
