A Quest for the Princess
I hold the rose that often bled my hand,
Never learning, listening, letting go.
I held it through anguish, passion, demand,
Crying crimson tears on fabric below.
How long before I crush its frail petals?
What might happen should I bleed no more?
This bud, valued more than any metal
Locked 'neath sands near my amorous shore.
I lie so far and distant from forgotten bliss;
Bound in a maze of unseen emptiness.
Yet, through pain and conflict I shall still wish
Your rose will bleed your hand no less;
And that, if time and love may still permit,
Your hand shall be my rose's last requite.
