Death of the Rose

She lies concealed,
in the thorny underbush
that traps her from warmth;
imprisoned by the sharp venom
of threat and pain-
actions that are
unacted
yet still fearsome,
meaning that is unsaid,
yet so horribly conveyed.
The bleeding crimson
of the blood that does not
flow-
it has frozen in the
cold, the swell
of dark purple veins
belie the truth of
the inert heart;
so lovely,
but so cold.