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.
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