A Walk through the Park in the Evening

I came across a wounded rose,
And knelt beside where he did lay, 
His thorns were clipped and so with woe, 
He crossed unto where reapers wait.
Before he faded I had to ask, 
What has dealt you this fatal blow, 
A shrug, and so fell a well worn flask
love, so neatly inscribed below.
Oh such an Intracate poison,
To so serenely ensnare the sense,
Yet such craft  cannot be undone,
And so, the flow from the wound seems endless.