It might be because her skin is fair as paled petals,
Or perhaps it’s her blush – pink as Spring’s first blossoms.
Perhaps it’s because her heart (that most intimate self) is somewhat like a rose.
It opens, softy and slowly and shyly.
And with enough light and the breath of love,
She becomes a fragile flower.
A splendor of petals and spectacular perfume,
Perched on a tower of thorns.
To pick a rose is to be pricked by thorns.
It is death.
For if, by the kiss of fate,
you somehow pick a rose, know this:
The rose will be yours, but for a time,
You may call nothing “mine”.
Empty is the love that you thought you gave
For all life is but a promise to the grave.