Red Rose

Really itchy, vines I feel prickling my spine.

The blossom will soon bloom, the vines come with thorns.

The crimson red of the bush. It’s pedals so soft but it’s stem so stiff.

It spouts perfect green leafs. Youthful but just decor to it’s bristling stalk scattered with thorns.

The enemy bleeds red, The rose stands in red.