Look, don't touch
A sweet young flower
a delicate Rose
dancing in the April shower
learning as she grows
A man drunk with lust
came from behind hid in the shadows
her peace and dreams he crushed
no longer may she dwell in soft meadows
This depetaled flower
this withering Rose
Bereft of beauty and virtue alike
falls, from alienation sharp as the knife
So always remember, never forget
though her petals be bright
leave the Rose where she sit
least ye steal her pure light
This poem is about:
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: