What lays upon the petals soft
in dying sunlight's gentle kiss
but a maiden fair and virtuous
upon the crimson bed of roses.
Pale and still she slumbers there,
as moonlight begins to glow
and glisten does the dewy flowers
that dress this bed of roses.
It is not until one reaches
to join her in that decor
they realize tis the bite of thorns
tucking her into the bed of roses.
upon snatching away one's hand
to escape the harsh thorns' grasp,
next they know tis blood that paints
the petals of the bed of roses.