First Red Rose Rises Again

It now has been two hundred years, I lay in my bed, alone, brittle, scarred with cruelty

I have waited so very long, the full moon buried me, as the wolf carried me to my grave

In the night of shrivel passion, I am holding on to his voice, to his touch, to his kiss

The passion does not die, the memory, I still hold inside, I am fearful it is too late

The Iceland, melted, into a pool of volcanic flames, as the warrior hunter of death entered

Though his powers great, the love of the prince, much, much greater, the fight of violence

Was blood stricken bitter, as the Prince of Red Roses, threw the warrior into the hot molten

Never regained, the Prince now fled to his first true love, his bride of decades, hoping he could bring her back

As he found his four legged friend in mist the daunting forest of fog, he took him, to her grave

He called out her name, and screamed to the highest of the castles mountains, and she called back

The earth burst into a dirt storm, as she rose above, like witches magic, and stood before him

The prince then kissed her neck, whispered in her deafened ear, and her flesh became, flesh, her hair grew down her back

And she fell into his arms, as he held the first red rose in his palm of his hand, the thorns

Tore threw their fingertips, and they sucked the drippings with their lips, ever so maddening, and they became one

As they suck the blood off of their naked bodies of furious mad sick passion