Roses aren't always Red

The red rose bush sat with all its thorns

Watching over the cloudy day.

The red petals felt to mourn,

Those that fell in the surprise fray.

The battle rage took him,

And drove him to the very brim

Of the strength he had within.

His blade fell fast upon his foes.

He heard not their pleas.

And he had stricken down, unleashing his woes,

Relieving his unholy needs.

His love they had killed,

And his heart was filled,

With a rage that did constantly build.

He stood there now,

The bodies all around

His body shaking, asking "How?"

But the rage was still and made now sound.

Then came the rain.

To cleanse the world for the sane

And hide that one human's bane.

And as the warrior walked away, he was cleansed of blood.

And as the bodies slid away, the land was cleansed of blood.

And as the flowers drank the rain, the red began to run.

The day's events rolled off the pocket,

And the flowers lost their blight.

The blood fell from the petals and onto a locket,

And then they flowers were white.

Just as his love had been taken away,

And the rage had come to him.

He chose the valley in which to stay

And sing his haunting hymn.

It's said that rain is pure

But no one knows for sure.

But it creates a heavenly cure,

That lets the soul run clean,

And forget all its pain.