Even now
I realize my life has fallen victim
To some sick metaphor

At this point I'm called
Not by my given name
But of that of a flower

Rose

And for me,
Many times,
Love has come and love has gone

And I burn for the things I have done
I am douced in the flames of infidelity
But I've seen the flowers burning

It's common,
When love dies,
To see the image of fire- set to the lovely petals  

roses

So then, why,
After love has left me yet again
Should I be surprised that I'm burning still?