My Rose

My Rose

My rose of pedal red, like the sting of my lover, bled.

You grow weary as you tremble, in your fermented grounded bed.

Let not the winds tire you. Nor the rain marque your spirit dampen.

Instead blossom and bloom as beauty does so rare abandon.

Reach up to the stars, where fires dance upon heavens oak.

Let your leaves reach out far, for rain droplets to slowly soak.

On the resemblance of my love, where you shall always be.

My sweetest rose, my felicity, and intimate secretive sanctity.

Turn your thorns so inwards sharp.

As blunted spoons, feed in the dark.

For not to taste your lonely ethereal faint.

Your exquisiteness hence you shall in perfection paint.

I’ll near to pick your wanting stem.

And give it with admiration to her or him.

As a gift betrayed of love once found or perhaps lost.

Harmoniously at such a cost.

Do never again grow dark and dim.

My red, red rose my heart you’ve won.

Oh red, red rose your beauty bound, never again undone.