Thorned Rose

When every last drop of blood has run dry, the rose withers alongside the silver coffin. At last, the blood-soaked vows bear fruit, and the first silver stamen greets the dawn.

The refugees of the eternal night smile as they drift into sleep. Their pale flesh and bones return to the soil. The barren spring dreams again of a heartbeat, and crimson streams rise from the depths of the earth.

The rose rejoices in wild delight. Awakened in an instant, the thorns engulf the silver coffin. Every thorn's mark is a crimson vow, and every tightening embrace buries another wail.

The refugees of the endless night come, guided by the crimson moon. A crimson tide erupts through pale veins. The blood-hungry bloom sips at the lingering warmth, and the silent roots at last learn how to grow.

A thorned rose rests beside the coffin, its roots sunk deep in rotting earth, drinking in the mist and morning frost. It knows the seal is about to break, and a thousand petals bloom with ravenous hunger.

The ancient rings of time stand silent as iron. A silver coffin lies across the spine of the deep forest. A nameless cry echoes from within. What slumbers inside knocks upon the gates of the world.