Janna Ruusuvuori

A rose blood red with black thorns grow in a tower turning the hour; the waves flow as the tune follow the path of pan's pipes. The map is in pieces with many a creases, folding the love within; like stars in the heavens the connections in sevens, the rose rolls the die to begin.

Spiralling outward overcoming the coward that chased her into the dark, where the monsters live under the bed, longing to come out.

As the winter draws near no longer in fear, a new creature begins to appear: with fiery wings, a piecing stare, and a carrying voice that rings. Its petals will blow in the wind to flow over the lands to other sands, while the sweet perfume will awake those in bloom to dance to her merry tune.

Now this Bloodthorn Bird with its a journey anew flying out of the blue, to find the words of old that have all been told in rhythm and rhyme since the beginning of time to seek the truth to from the sayers of sooth that will crack the dome of our home in search of the diamonds in the sky where brave souls will fly.