Power of the rose

Quietly sitting,
like its never there,
the deepest red,
to the darkest green,
the jarring colours of love.

The thorns,
slowly twist through every gap,
and slice,
into the delicate features of the body it feeds.

Mist swirls around its long spiralling roots,
floating on top,
afraid to break,
afraid to touch.

Many have tried to tame the beast,
but it grew stronger,
feeding on the power,
on the blood.

As the weather began to chill,
the body began to wilt,
slowly dieing,
a painful disease,
that kills more then the body,
it kills its soul.