The Rose
A beauty all its own
No other can compare
A flower unlike others
Could anything be so rare.
At birth a tiny bud
Unfolding each new day
Revealing its beauty slowly
For too soon it will decay.
Petals as soft as velvet
Thorns to prick your skin
A scent unlike any other
A mystery lies within.
Love the implication
When a rose you do receive
The beauty, scent and mystery
Like love we wish to cleave.
Copyright © Marion Smith | Year Posted 2006
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