the soul yearns for her presence, but the heart knows she's already gone the soul yearns to hold her hand, but the heart knows her feel the soul yearns to tell her that she is loved, but the heart knows she won't hear the soul yearns for her return, but the heart knows she made her choice the soul yearns to erase what happened, but the heart knows it's too late
something i've been thinking of writing about for a while now
The rose has thorns because it cares not to be touched. Its color is a warning for animals to stay away. Its scent is a scream and not a delight for us to own. It exists in ****** stillness bending only for the sun. The scientist knows this having heard its sub audible howl with delicate machines that probe its roots. The poet plucks the bloom unaware of the pain that created that beauty, the aroma that shouts its death to its vegetable kind.