It pricked her hand and then she bled
This sullen rose she’d always fed.
No blossoms here in two long years
With only thorns to prompt her tears.
She’d cut it down if she were mad
To stop the times it made her sad.
Yet purposely it served her well
And helped her find a voice to yell.
Then tears did fall and cleansed her thought
Relieving her of what life wrought.
Into a tiny handkerchief
She breathed the air and felt relief.