The Rose

A rose.
It’s simple beauty
Calls to me.
Petals of reddest red,
Leaves of greenest green.

I pluck a flower
From the plant,
Heedless of the stinging thorns.
Tiny bitter blades
Pierce my skin.
Blood as red as the petals
Trickles down my hand,
Falls in glistnigh droplets
To the ground.
A puddle forms there,
Red in the brown dirt earth.
I am intrigued.
I slash again and again with the thorns.
My hand and wrist are a bloody mess.
The puddle in the dirt is growing quickly,
Blood spilling from my outstretched hand
To the thirsty earth below.
The earth drinks me up
Like a newly awakened vampire.
She thrives on my blood, my life.
I give myself to her,
Nurturing the nurturer,
Giving life to the life-giver,
My living blood sustains her.