G.D.T. 1969-1992. My son was an artist and his favorite subject was my favorite flower--a yellow rose.
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Bullets fly … often fatal …
and loved ones are left behind.
I will cherish you for’er …
though you only live in my mind.
Give justice it’s due—
it’s too often blind.
You can’t squeeze blood from a rose—
any color, hue—
but thorns may prick you.
Dew tears on petals anew.
Axes cut bones and metal—
no one should see what they do,
how they cut our hearts in two.
Why did he do that to you?
I count upon you
my tears seep … I’m blind.
You can’t squeeze blood from a rose—
any color, hue—
but thorns may prick you.
Dew tears on petals anew.
You left me one rose petal
that was yellow to its’ core.
With bare hand you tore off thorns;
jealous, the devil was sore.
Your death was unjust;
to lies … you were blind.
You can’t squeeze blood from a rose—
any color, hue—
but thorns may prick you.
Dew tears on petals anew.

The devil never turned you.
You can’t squeeze blood from a rose.