Twelve bloody roses,
Lay waiting upon the altar.
Eleven of these bloody roses,
Were sacrificed and given up to her.

They were given with absolute love in light,
They were sacrificed in the sweat and blood of the deepest, darkest night.
These roses were not always bloody in petal,
They bled when she lay dead and silently still.

He – her love broke the petals and crushed their life,
He gave her all, but was the cause of her death, her strife.
Yet it was not that hate was in the blood of the eleven roses,
It was not that it ran in their veins but that it ran in his.

Unknown he killed his love,
Beside her lay the gifts in blood he gave to her,
And as the tears he cried fell from above,
A thought, in his mind, began to stir…

He walked away from her broken, bleeding body,
And took the athame, once good – in hand
He pierced his mortal skin; the blood falling freely,
The immortal cries of hell and heaven heard across the land.

The last rose lay innocent in a sweet yellow tone,
He was to give it to her as the eternal sign
She would have been his – every day, kisses to the morn’
He screamed “God why could she not be truly mine?”

He feel there, his blood falling onto the last yellow innocence,
The tears slowly drying,
The heart beat once so vibrant and intense,
Was now, slowly but surely dying…

And there as twelve midnight struck, the chime crying out,
Silent were the bodies of the lovers lost,
Their lives ended for in them lay the deadly lovers doubt,
Beside them lay twelve bloody roses, the sweet lovers cost.

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