a whilted rose,
black pettles,
limp stem,
decayed,
picked from the patch by the devil himself,
with a prick of the finger,
blood triccles down the dried leaves,
and slowly the rose rises,
steam stiffens,
the color rushes into the pettles,
becomeing red with blood,
rejunitvating,
thoughts entering the minds of the watchers,
bringing about hope,
and thoughts of life,
the dead rise from there graves,
drawing upon the enegry of the mystic rose,
life once again thrives,
and peace of mind restored
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