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: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741