White Rose - E

That of a different kind A different colour A different breed Its colour pure and simple From a complicated mix of genes Petals of the White Rose have never been plucked no questions were asked to it: 'do you love me or do you not?' Only one has ever smelled it embracing its full allure for others tossed it to the side, unable to endure That person also of a different kind a different colour too black as the darkest of nights so very sinful and untrue Step by step he took walking through the forest path until a little shimmer caught his eye dragging him close by Both knees on the floor as he acquainted the pricks of thorns upon them but for the pain he did not care for the White Rose had grasped his stare he lifted it to steal to keep for only him and not to share And so the white rose lived and died upon his shoulder making the eyes tear slowly, the eyes of their beholder.