In hell and heaven she followed,

Either it be pain or love she was helpless to his grasp,

His hold on her became so strong that even in death she hunted him,

If she could not follow him within the soil that lay under her broken nails, or her feet,

She would lay upon his casket 6 feet below in the open burial site and make it her own too.

A prick of a thorn on the side of the rose made her hiss as she plucked the petals off one by one, giving them their own names as they fell to there deaths,

Leaving only the stem left alive to grow old and rot,

Whilst the petals got to die when they were oh so beautiful and loved.

Yet through all of her sanity,

In life and death,

She was the petals.

Yet she lived as the stem.