Battle Rose Red

Smooth, red, folds and curls,
Attached to a snake of thorns,
Sees the splatters of red,
That signify another is dead.

Red feels light and unfurls,
Shows petals it adorns,
Sees the war’s bloodshed,
Feels all the heinous dread.

War man aims and fires,
Wherever he desires,
His barrel of death cracks,
Whenever he attacks.

War man makes others die,
One war man of his kind,
He is the last one,
And hindered by no one.

Red glistens in sunlight,
Open and majestic,
See’s war man’s rampage end,
His foes’ lives ended.

Red’s color, full and bright,
Will fade all too quickly.
Sees war man is winded,
His movement suspended.

War man drowns in fatigue,
But is zapped with intrigue,
By small red light shows,
From a single proud rose.

In a sea of despair,
A beautiful beacon,
A bright symbol of care,
A good samaritan.

Petals reflect the sunlight,
With the ferocious might,
Of a raging jaguar,
About to give more than a scar.

Round, red, swirls and bends,
Perched above the misery,
Sees war man rise and stand,
And start to walk the land.

Red near its abrupt end,
How is no mystery,
For war man’s open hand,
Has a last demand.

War man wearily walks,
Past the bleeding and dead,
Towards the prey he stalks,
The war’s only pretty red.

What he wants most of all,
Is to feel, see, and smell,
A red that doesn’t appall,
Or associate with hell.

War man reaches the brier,
That is blackened and dead,
Running only on desire,
Exists the fading red.

War man plucks the lone rose,
And smushes it to his nose,
A battered bloody smile,
Resting on his face awhile.

Lays on his aching back,
And strokes the still fresh red,
His mind nearly cracks,
Cool tears of relief shed.

Gazes upon soft white clouds,
Flashes back to childhood,
Always making mom proud,
Wishing the world good.

Shriveling curls of red,
Sees the war man’s eyes,
Feels the war man’s moist tears,
And wonders what he fears.

Fading beauty of red,
Feels the war man arise,
Onto his exhausted feet,
Heart with a calm beat.

Turns around just in time,
To see a bullet fly,
Base small as a dime,
But enough for him to die.

Blood spilled by a dying man,
War man assumed had died,
But instead bled for a span,
Killed war man and then died.

Red, baggy, wrinkles,
Sitting on dead man’s chest,
Sees a red darker than it,
Drip closer bit by bit.

Dry, crispy, red crinkles,
Will soon join him in rest,
Unless moisture hits it,
Last of Red’s life will quit.

But then comes the river,
The blood of a dead man,
Ironically a giver,
Of lengthened lifespan
For it’s fellow red member.
Red soaks up the darker red,

Like a man on his deathbed,
Given a cool, vast, slew,
Of the purest water shed,
From the fountain of youth.

Red is ripped back to health,
In a way not close to stealth,
Kicked over the border,
Jerked over the fine borderline,
Between life and death.

It’s Red’s raw desire,
Like the fuel of a fire,
That causes the flimsy stem,
To suddenly stiffen again,
And seemlessly sprout roots.

It’s physically incapable,
Red’s fate shouldn’t be escapable,
Biologically impossible,
For it to be able,

To survive and thrive,
Using the man as fertilizer,
But there is where red lies,
Rapidly increasing in size,
As the brightening days fly by.

The red grows and grows,
Until it is a booming thicket,
Of happiness and sweet smells,
A thousand times sweller,
Than the original rose.

The growth of these roses still exists,
The sprouting of seeds still persists,
In the now massive grove,
A beautiful treasure trove,
All from one rose, and one man,
Who gave all the life one can.