The Bleeding Rose

It's an attempt at a poem.

In the bleak moonless night,

there blooms a single rose;

a meek thing devoid of might.

In the wet crimson rot,

there reeks of an odious thought-

sins of passion wrought.

In the soft gentle moonlight,

there echoes an anguished moan

and a weak gasp of fright.

When the darkest hour is past,

when the time has come to sow,

weep for the heavy debt of lust,

for indeed the debt shall grow.