the rose
The Rose
I plucked a rose from the bush by the door
A thorn pricked my finger made it bloody and sore
As I washed the blood from my hand with care
I thought of the rose so delicate and fair
Was it trying to tell me as I winced with pain
Leave me alone so that others may see me again
Or was it striking back from the brink of death
Landing its own final blow with its own final breath
I plucked a rose from the bush by the door
A thorn pricked my finger made it bloody and sore
As I washed the blood from my hand with care
I thought of the rose so delicate and fair
Was it trying to tell me as I winced with pain
Leave me alone so that others may see me again
Or was it striking back from the brink of death
Landing its own final blow with its own final breath
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