Like a flower grows
blooms and blossoms
first like a cucoon, then swelling
transforming against odds and chances

But roses aren't warm
caressing, nor gently
do they pulsate
when pressing together

Beautiful though
they are, their soft petals
beckon the senses
beautify, mystical dressing

Roses aren't thinking
thoughts of tomorrow
about forgiving hurt feelings
or of feeling such sorrow

Like a flower, though
blooms and blossoms
someone close
is bound to also, it's certain

Delicate beauty they are
often the pain
they cause by bitter thorns
stays well learned and remembered

Beauty remains in spite of
dreaded maturation, like the soft petals
simple and true
you beckon my senses


© 2007 Identitycrisis

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