Upon which eternity my eyes did fall
into the Crystal Blue intensity he keeps?
The sentinel perched in the minds of men
when detected, his ambiance, wholly fled me.
Fortify! The ramparts, blessed protectors of virtue.
Against entrance and ruin they hold firm.
However, solitude is irrecoverable.
A thorn on a Rose shields
Yet Blood it spills
Blood from the slender fingers of young virgins
Plucking for their intended
Blood from the calloused thumbs of the lads
Who pluck for the virgins.
The Rose for all its intentions
is plucked anyway.
That Rose in which eternity did he give?
Crimson, he said, like the blush resting daintily on your cheeks.
Two stains of Blood I thought instead.
The thorn will he be and from me draw forth liquid Crimson life-
hot and pulsing through my steams?
I am the Rose now.
Majestic in offertory and boring in tradition
The prize behind the wall.
To attain the price is steep,
A formidable endeavor for any.
A Crimson Rose?
So simple a consolation?
How can any man be satisfied with so little as this?
Pray, enlighten me- for I know not.
Who will he be?
Incomparable in language I think.
When will he come—
when the last Rose is plucked?
How will he arrive—
so I may keep my watch?
I dare not hope a splendid manner
Secretive more befits my luck
Surely disappointment I recognize enough.
For what do I comprehend but speculation?
All I know is that shade of Crystal Blue.
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