There was a blood-red rose. Thorned, sharp like a razor. It wasted in the gritty earth. Wind moaned, the petals danced. Fragrant, bewitching. A lachrymose melancholic, would say. It bled deep colour in sunlight. But its beauty suffered. Underneath lay a Dionysian grief. The thorns tore their maker. Prick by prick. It wilted in its pride. Blood-red turned muddy brown. Thorns no longer sharp. Ruin had been clever. Life ebbed away. The melancholic smiled. A rose, now truer. The Dionysian passion faded. Sun set over desolation. A blood-red rose with razor-sharp thorns. The beauty of affliction lay bare. Lessons learned from the fallen.