Quiet Night in Time
This rose stained for time has stopped and to this I know not enough for time, standing still to this silent night.
These tears that of which escape me draw paths smoothly staining down and deeply I fall victim to this still silent night.
These petals a little crisp as the cold creeps as I await to cascade into a sleep of condescending dreams.
This stem supposedly straight, unexpectedly almost uncontrollable wilts wonderfully to the endless quiet on this never-ending night.
These leaves crinkling and crumbling as if tossing and turning in a bed of shattering roses trying to redeem what's left of this not quite satisfying masochistic evening.
These thorns grow more as time continues sharply, enlightened my thorns are sadistic depending and thriving on that which is inflicted.
Intuition has always intrigued my attention that of which has always captured those fallen petals from that of the beloved bleeding rose.
I know not of what I do, but that of what I am and what I am is the bleeding part of a purple rose. And when time is isolated that part of me which bleeds stops significantly consuming me entirely.
And this night encloses me completely encasing my shattered petals encompassing my fragile stem and enveloping those leaves ever so carefully.
The purple that once was following a flowing path along those venomous veins throughout the stem, the leaves, and of course the purplest petals has stopped because as I sit on this quiet night in time, the purple shall not bleed the rose.
And so as I'm consumed completely my mind is finally at peace and so drooping, my eyelids slowly shut and my restless night that was never ending finally comes to that end letting time that stood so still suppress and sinfully resuming, the purple slowly starts to flow.