Even thinking of the prick of a rose
Could cause disruption which only grows
Was it even worth the smell?
When I dared reach, it hurt like hell!
The soft gentle petals of his gentle care
The entrancing fragrance of his skin so fair
Oh how honest was his loving face
His absence only caused disgrace
Smiling so as if to help
I bled so long, and still I yelp
Maybe that’s where the rose gets its color
So rich and alive, but short-lived gone asunder
Yet the thorns are still strong
They know where they belong
The flower just blooms and then dies
Since it fell from the tall-telling lies
Could then a new bud then form?
Or would it get ate by a worm?
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