To pick her is to pain, Yet
magnificent in her simplicity,
Her light blinds my eyes, When
A thorn stabs my finger tip,
Unaware my frame betrayed me
When a blood tear falls on her,
A moment transient, Frozen in time,
A blank canvas alight with color,
As she battles for justice, A place to be,
A right to choose, Too unwilling to part
For, what is A Rose without her Thorns?
There she blooms, In all her glory, Tenacious,
A White-Red rose; A Rose with Thorns
Too flawed to be flawless, Too soiled to be dainty,
Amidst a thousand tender blooms,
Why... She outdo them all!