The Promise of the Rose

 It might be because her skin is fair as paled petals,

Or perhaps it’s her blush – pink as Spring’s first blossoms.

Maybe it’s because she will grow from this earth, and will one day be part of it again, like all living things.

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.

But,

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.

Rose

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