He is but a Rose
He is but a Rose, the undefinable beauty, an incomprehensible nature
She grasps him like a child, but she bleeds.
She wants to admire the beauty, his features as intricate as petals
But she bleeds.
He is but a Rose, delicate to harsh weather but silent in beauty
She longs to encompass this arrogant elegance
But she bleeds.
The blood is all over her hands; a dark, sweet red like cherry wine.
The blood is overwhelming, constantly pouring; an endless demise
She sees the cause, the scars; it is the thorns.
She learns his harshness has hurt her
But she bleeds.
Blood has now overtaken her life, but she does not mind
She does not comprehend her infatuation with the rose
But that is all she needs.
It is a love that does not love her back
So she bleeds.