All the great lyricists of the world
will always regard love as a rose;
beautiful and elegant,
its sweet aroma as dizzying as its
deep sultry red,
its petals as succinct and complex as
the layered patterns of admiration.
But when do they remember to mention
that to hold a rose close enough to
take in its delicate scent or profound beauty
one must hold it by the stem,
and if one squeezes, even just the smallest bit too tight,
the thorns smartly come into the skin,
and make the holder bleed their true self
onto the garden grass?