I have seen a rose wilted by anger,
With dry petals that under heavy breath
Shiver and shake with furious danger.
Her thorns are daggers wielded by Macbeth--
They usher passionate revenge; never
Will she grasp the finality of death.
She burns red in the hot summer weather,
But if you enter her garden bower,
You’ll find her silenced heart, bound and tethered.
I read these passions--this hunt for power--
In vain fae and young blossoms; they anchor
Deep down, growing sicker by the hour.
To this intenseness, I am no stranger,
I have been a rose wilted by anger