The painted rose haunts my dreams,
Taunting me with what I seek,
Enticing me with sweet promises,
But these things are things I cannot reach.
The painted rose consumes my sleep.
The painted rose attacks me,
With sharp purple thorns,
Tearing at my flesh,
Confusing me of what is good and just.
The painted rose humbles me through fear.
The edges of the leaves,
Wilted, black, and malnourished,
Seek to be relieved,
And block the path for the pilgrims,
Who seek for the pure to be freed.
I have delved into a sea of red,
Created by the blood spilt by those that I call brothers,
Who each wield the painted rose,
Gripped tightly by dirt covered fists,
These men are not my friends,
And this sea of red must be cleansed.
Amidst the seas of red,
Are blue islands of rest and refuge,
Where friends may be found,
And where pureness prevails,
But these islands are sinking quickly,
As they recede back into the sea.
The painted rose provides salvation,
Towards the center, hidden behind the seas of red leaves,
Is a bright, beautiful light,
That purges the wicked and the cruel,
But gives a false hope for those who cannot reach it.
The painted rose is the scourge of the conquerors,
Whom cause the pain of others,
As their greed compels them to advance,
Seeking the prize at the bottom of the box,
But whose fingers are burned as they grasp the fire.
The painted rose banishes the wicked to oblivion.
The painted rose is the bane of the downtrodden,
Whom are too weak to advance towards protection,
If only the pure could reach it,
If only the good could band together,
The wickedness of others would be burned away.
Suicide is terrible. If you arent part of the solution, your are part of the problem.
Spread kindness, be a lost soul's solution.
Give someone a reason to live
I am begging you all.