Life becomes more alluring than a rose,
and its petals are like milk and honey.
This is why people will superimpose
life over death, and look forwards sunny.
It is not until that a child pricks
himself on a thorn that it all just snaps.
The idea of a rose bush then clicks:
life happens just to be another trap.
In the prickle bush is a bag of cheats;
life is a prickle bush that will suppress.
Since victory has become obsolete,
to misery and pain we must all acquiesce.
A rose is uncharacteristic of
a prickle bush, but the thorns are of love.