Who Could Love a Rose?

Who could love a rose

with so many thorns?

As soon as its blooming buds

open freely,

the tender flesh,

once untouched,

is tainted by death,

a premature lush.

But he must hold it,

let it be his to touch,

Falling, falling

for its transient blush.

Its summer petals,

red with life,

fade and fall

before compromise.

The closer he draws

to his temptress prize,

The fainter he falls

throughout mystic eyes.

For to hold it,

in its window of luster,

Only wounds

the one that lusts her.

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