She was once a fair handed maiden,
ivory skin,
a fancier of satin.
She admired the roses from afar,
wishing for a wisp of their melancholy scent.

Whispering roses rise to her skin,
meeting velvety flesh
and kinder eyelids on a fallen kings stem.

Her hand did not punish
nor did it cry
as a thorn pricked silk
releasing a warriors cry
and a small drop of blood
so grotesque yet divine.

Deeper than the conflagrant sky.