The rose
There was a rose in bloom I saw
A rose of red
It's scent alluring as it's color
A passionate shade of red
A wonderful shade of red
An intoxicating scent it was as well
The scent of the rose
I knew of that rose
Others I know have been tempted
By it's seductive scent
Poor souls
Poor things
The rose has thorns you see
Sharp thorns that stab
Sharp thorns of the night
Sharp thorns of the dark
Sharp thorns of a rose that blooms
Beneath a moonless sky
Sharp thorns that cause red petals to bloom as well
Red petals of the skin
Red petals of the flesh
Petals that fall to the ground in a pitiful act
A pitiful act of touching the rose
The desperate need
To touch that damn rose
Funny thing
An innocent rose could do such a thing
I have not yet bled
Though I have watched others fall
Petals blooming from their flesh
The madness has taken a new prisoner
Into it's quiet embrace
I have not been taken
I have not touched the rose
But I know of the rose
I watch the rose
The intoxication of its scent grows day by day
The scent can make one mad
But what a madness!
I have not yet touched the rose
I have not yet seen the petals bloom
From my very flesh
The crimson petals
Have yet to fall
What would happen if I touched the rose?
Could I capture this elusive beauty?
Or would my virgin flesh be tainted
Become a garden for red roses to grow?
I do not know
I watch the rose
I do not fear the rose