Deep in the valleys of the Thorn Mountains
Grows the Bloodrose, taking life from the weak
Of moral stature, spewing great fountains
Of crimson fluid to restore the meek
Who have done no harm to the flowers sleek
Which sprout up from the newly blood-drenched earth
And bask in not sunrays, but the blood creek
That flows from the flowering point of birth.
The pure of heart will thank the tall, red flowers
And go about their ways, feeling remorse
For villains slain, despite many hours
Strapped to the backside of a speeding horse;
For although life will take its evil course,
Being glad of riddance will transform one
Into but the very same, dark sort of force
That prior to this sought to reform one.
One will begin to wonder at this:
Do the roses really have the full right
To take blood from others, a deathly kiss
To restore the righteous back to the light?
Must they inspire such amounts of cold fright
In other evil hearts, to serve and judge?
There will surely be a storm, a great fight,
To reduce the Bloodroses to scarlet sludge.
The Bloodroses have served their awful ways
And now the time has gone to give them praise:
The restored must make a choice: will they turn
Against the very flowers which did raise
Them from the hateful, white, glowering blaze
In which the unjust must surely now burn?