Scarlet Thorn
Forgive me, but I cannot stand the smell
of haggard roses, red from man's abuse;
though pleasing to the eye, the scent does tell
of love that was once fair, but now cut loose.
I wish to wallow in a grand bouquet
comprised of roses painted like the moon,
for virgin hearts are pure until they stray
from gardens seeded with their fathers' boon.
Tis true; an infant rose is white at birth,
but there are those who live to taint the bud
with careless hands, diminishing its worth
because her needles drink dishonest blood.
Fear not; I'd never yield a scarlet thorn,
for I adore the color you were born!
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