She stood in a pool of blood,
Fingers trembling against the cold,
The vague slosh of the red mud,
A soft clink of the metal of a sword.

Her eyes as blank as a void of loneliness,
Her breath as quick and crisp as a gun,
Her hair in an utter, chaotic mess,
Not a single element or trace of the sun.

She watches a bud...A black rose,
Stained with a slippery red,
Standing and stuck in a dead pose,
It remains the only one standing in the bed.

She looks around for a hint of life,
Nothing but slashed and cut up limbs,
All by the work of a longer knife
And some help from spears and arrows.

Her gaze fixed upon the black bud,
Guilt and pain etched upon her face,
Her knees now down on wet mud,
Her breath running a strange race.

Her heart filled with darkness,
Like the colour of the rose,
Her position alone and cold,
Just like that of the rose.