My rose is not just any rose,
It is very special, one-of-a-kind.
The keeper of the vase on my window sill
The lily that I found,
So beautiful, so delicate, so pure,
So unbelievably uncorrupt,
I couldn't pick it.
My fingers I fear,
Wouldn't fail to wither it.
See, my rose has thorns,
a tough outer layer.
The lily is so soft,
So delicate,
I couldn't risk the chance.
So I offer just one last glance.
I will leave the lily where it grows,
To dodge my trowel, and those of others.
Until it finds the tenderness of real love
to pick it from its lonely plot of soil.
Where it will sit on someone's window sill,
in a vase, thriving in all the spoils.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
My rose is not just any rose,
It is very special, one-of-a-kind.
The keeper of the vase on my window sill
The lily that I found,
So beautiful, so delicate, so pure,
So unbelievably uncorrupt,
I couldn't pick it.
My fingers I fear,
Wouldn't fail to wither it.
See, my rose has thorns,
a tough outer layer.
The lily is so soft,
So delicate,
I couldn't risk the chance.
So I offer just one last glance.
I will leave the lily where it grows,
To dodge my trowel, and those of others.
Until it finds the tenderness of real love
to pick it from its lonely plot of soil.
Where it will sit on someone's window sill,
in a vase, thriving in all the spoils.
A kind of "Part II" to my previous poem, "The Flower, In The Vase, On My Window Sill"