Roses

The rose has always been unique, Its beauty holds such great mystique, A fragrant scent with pure delight, A flaming red or gentle white, With pedals seen only in bloom, With innocence all would consume This flower none will ever match, For splendor has its evil batch, A rose holds thorns to cause a pain, That many things cannot abstain, As sharp as blades, they cut the skin, To try and poison good with sin, They pierce the happiness inside, But soon enough it will subside, A rose begins to age with time, After the rose has met its prime, The petals slowly shed with shame, And fall to earth from where it came, Each one will fall eventually, For no rose lives eternally, Time keeps moving, and one by one, The petals fall, till there are none, But roses have what none can buy, For any rose will never die, Instead, it leaves behind a seed, So that its beauty may proceed And over time the seed will grow, And subtle color will soon show, Itself upon the little bud, Golden yellow or scarlet blood, And fragrant as it used to be, With thorns at bearable degree, However said, this clearly shows, That love has always been a rose, The seed that slowly starts to grow, And will eventually show, Its beauty, color and sweet scent, And dismal thorns many resent, These woes will lead the love awry, For love and rose will always die.