Like a rose,
Pain may be,
Its petals the flesh,
Her thorns a cutting-edge,
When all should be present,
Her color shall deplete,
In forming red trails,
To pool at her feet,
In admiring glances,
Does she romance,
Yet once near, she can protest,
The pain of being kept,
If gripped too firmly,
Through the petals, she’ll split,
Where distress in you spreads,
For she will admire her effect,
When agony is but a rose,
You accept your woeful fate,
Because the mark she leaves
behind,
Will outlive the beauty in her
wake.
No comments:
Post a Comment