The first red rose

Little wild rose, growing all alone,
Petals ivory white, with thorns as sharp as stone,

No one is left standing of those who’ve faced the pain,
Is standing and willing enough to endure to try again,

The tears build upon her face, like shining stars they adorn,
Waiting to be wiped away by someone willing to brave the thorns,

The air is growing colder, as the wind is blowing hard,
As she’s forced to warm herself alone, scratched, and scarred,

Her tines cut her deep, much deeper than the rest,
Each time coming closer to piercing the heart inside her chest,

Her wounds are bleeding heavily, in silence her tears are shed,
For the little white rose, is forever stained a crimson red.