From Stone, She Rose
A poem about the trials of love and the pain thereafter.
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A
Rose bestowed beauty unto me like never seen before
She said, "Place your hand upon me"
I replied, "Nay" (for many a thorn she bore.)
So, my rose sobbed tears that sadden even the bluest of seas.
Then
She said, "My love rests not with a bruise or a prickly scar"
So, though hesitant I was, I touched my beautiful one...
...And her thorns drove into my fingers hard.
My rose blushed when I asked her, "My love, what have you done?"
© Marquis Smith 2021