The dewdrops sizzle like fire,
silver petals wither beneath.
These roses, once beautiful,
sprout thorns which prick.

It's hard to breathe,
their cloying scent thick.
Each rose begs to be claimed,
but lost are those who fell-
those who fell for their trick.


Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Chronos, in the year 611 AF.