I just heard a dream crash before being silenced by a sigh,
and the plop of a warm tear as it hits the icy cold ground.
It made the same sound as the thorn;
when it was torn away from the rose.

I pick up the broken pieces of my shattered dreams
Each pricks me like the sharpest thorn
It cuts me deep and turns a crimson red
Red and glorious like the very rose I dreamt of.

I look at the palms of my hands.
I fail to distinguish between the cuts and the lines of fate.
I look at all the thorns I have picked, they are enough.
Now I only need to find the reddest petals;
Pick them up and make myself the prettiest rose.