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Ooh la la, the rose, coronate her beauty.
Her ruffled scent, her hues, dare not refuse.
When petals red, like strawberry-fruity,
and lovey-dovey white, one must persue.
Persistent veil of mist will kiss one’s soul,
will kill one’s love for any forthright bud.
She’s no petulant child, a fine trompe l’oiel.
Commands perfume’d ascent of pulse, life’s blood.
Beneath the fray, a thorn’d adversary
will snag the jugular of swivel-head.
Her red pursed lips, dove-skin, a bit scary.
Don’t be tempted to find another’s bed.
She stands ten feet tall-er than uncut weeds.
She possesses a prowess set that leads.
Personification & Sonnet
Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2021
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