Red rose, a rose that is red. The crimson of a delicate flower, with the betrayal called torns worn upon their sleeve. The piercing daggers that disguise themselves upon the petals of beauty, petals that slowly wilt only to regrow in lust. 'Not much there for me to tell you,' not much there that may escape your lips, not much there that may apply itself onto a page of fraud, not real parchment, but a screen with a soft glowing light. Too much has been said, yet not enough to fill the heads of mankind.
