Like a flower grows
blooms and blossoms
first like a cucoon, then swelling
transforming against odds and chances
But roses aren't warm
caressing, nor gently
do they pulsate
when pressing together
Beautiful though
they are, their soft petals
beckon the senses
beautify, mystical dressing
Roses aren't thinking
thoughts of tomorrow
about forgiving hurt feelings
or of feeling such sorrow
Like a flower, though
blooms and blossoms
someone close
is bound to also, it's certain
Delicate beauty they are
often the pain
they cause by bitter thorns
stays well learned and remembered
Beauty remains in spite of
dreaded maturation, like the soft petals
simple and true
you beckon my senses
© 2007 Identitycrisis