The Rose with No Thorns

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In her floor length black cloak,
She almost looked chameleon in gloominess.
Almost.
What was inside the glass in her hands was enchanted;
Her glowing rose with no thorns.
Tenderly blood red.
Her hands might be icy,
She held the glass steady
As she walked up the mountain
Step by step.
It was a long travel;
She had no clue where the mountain top was.
Thundered a beast popped from the side.
Before she could gasp,
The beast slapped the glass with a roar and escaped.
The glass dropped to the rocky road and shattered.
With an even whiter face and whiter hands,
She picked up her rose.
Though it had no thorns,
It caused bleeding.
Bravely enduring the pain,
She walked on with her back straight.
Howled a monster as it collided with her.
Before she could scream,
She was on the floor,
Injured.
Her blood red rose was splattered
By her warm blood.
She shed no tears but stood up quick with her rose
To continue her journey up the hill.
The nearly bald mountain top looked pessimistic as a destination.
Though disappointed, she carefully placed her rose upright
And gathered loose soil around to help it stand
With her pale hands stained by blood.
A figure showed himself from the shadow.
Hopeless, she begged for mercy.
He got closer and knelt down to touched her bloodless frosty cheeks.
She froze.
Her trembling hands were still supporting her rose.
Tears filled her eyes.
He extracted something from his pocket.
Her heart stopped.
He extracted something from his pocket –
A scarf and a handkerchief.
Gently he cleaned her hands,
Softly he bound them up.
He kissed both of her hands
And her injured knee.
He picked her up
And carried her in his arms
For he was her prince –
Prince of the rose with no thorns.

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