In shadows deep, where sorrow dwells,
A tale unfolds, the saddest of sells.
A merchant walks, burdened with plight,
Trading roses fair for weapons of night.

With weary steps and weary eyes,
He roams the streets where despair lies.
His soul once vibrant, filled with glee,
Now trapped in a web of tragedy.

In search of solace, his heart does seek,
To mend the wounds that seem so bleak.
He wields his trade, a haunting exchange,
Guns for roses, a pact so strange.

Each crimson bloom, a fleeting hope,
A fragile symbol, a chance to cope.
He longs for love's embrace, divine,
But finds naught but weapons in this design.

For roses, once blooming in his hand,
Turn to wilted petals, a bitter demand.
Their fragrance lost, their beauty marred,
In a world consumed by cruelty and scars.

As he trades for arms, his conscience aches,
Each trigger pulled, a piece of his soul breaks.
The weight of sorrow, a burden he bears,
Trading love's embrace for violence's snares.

For he knows deep down, in his tormented heart,
That roses cannot mend what's torn apart.
He sold his soul, his dreams shattered and torn,
In exchange for weapons, sorrow was born..

So the merchant walks, his burdens held tight,
Haunted by the choices that dimmed his light.
The roses, once cherished, now lost in the dark,
The merchant, sells what his heart could have not.


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