Whoever implied that the red rose could love?

Surely, then, he has missed its wicked thorns

Be it no angel fallen from above

Underneath the smile, silently it scorns.

'Neath slender stem, her false pretenses show.

Who was I to have guessed it, to have known?

All that's left is the answer to bestow-

There is no fate worse than to be alone.

No longer do her sweet petals brush mine.

There was no note, no last good-bye.

All that's left are these questions to divine

When everything she told me was a lie.

Who implied that the red rose's roots could leave my heart?

Surely, then, he knew naught the pain being apart.



This is in sonnet form.

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