and love becomes their song

the dark, seething, crimson rose
begged for your touch
upon her twisting, cutting,
luscious vine

"Bleed for me,"
she pleads,
"restore the color to my petals
winter's thieved."

she splays herself
before your palms
"Breathe of me,"
she requisitions,
"house me in your loving lungs
so I can be your song."

so you reach for thorny vine
and she wraps herself around you;
drinking of your vigor-
as you place renewed petals
before your face
and breathe her seed
into your waiting chest

"Water me,"
she sings,
"let me drink of you
in a new way."

and without waiting
for your bated
yes-
she tightens her spiny grip
around your flesh
and tears water the dirt
beneath, making their way
into her roots and traveling up
her slender stem

all at once
her grasp is released
as the green vine
turns to ash-
and sitting in your bloody hands
regret begins to drown her

"WHY?!"
you scream, quite angrily,
and in the sweetest song
she sings-

"Many have come
and heard my pleas,
and you are the first
to rescue me,
from broken grounds
and spiny things;
now please,
take me home."