Blood Wine Roses

The thorn has pierced my finger, pierced my skin. My blood wells up, a bead of life that rises and gleams in the moonlight. Black. It reflects the slit of a dying moon. The roses are all about me. Their velvet blooms are damask, Bourbon, musk, they swell like the breasts of harlots and their scent is sweet as sin. My crystal goblet holds blood-red wine, drained of its color by moon and stars.