There was an old legendary myth about a Dear Little Sprout
One who watches over mortals since The Creation up until throughout
Lurking from within numerous gardens as we all turnabout
Protecting those he deems good despite most mortals having such doubt

Dear Little Sprout can tell who's good and evil
Even acknowledging those who he deems neutral
Guiding Good and Punishing Evil as individuals
Giving advice for Neutral and hearing out their personal visual

Little did they know that the Dear Little Sprout has a big secret
One that he considers as the most deepest
That being he's more than just a symbolic fairy tale
But rather he's a Young Nature God with a hopeful prevail

He took the form a green-haired teenage boy
Surrounded by various flowers that's filled with so much joy
Roses, Daisies, Sunflowers, and many more he enjoys
The Dear Little Sprout, Herb, is always seen with such adorable poise

Sweet Little Herb shall spread happiness and love
For the sake of guiding and protecting everyone like a kind dove
Holding the Light of Creation in the form of the flower
With his love from those he's close to fills him with passionate power

Together we bring love like the roses in the garden
As we shine on similar to the daisies that was pardoned
We shall be as strong as the sunflowers from the proverb
The Dear Little Sprout, Our Sweet Little Herb

It’s green for you and black for me
Each color plays its part
It’s green for you and black for me
The icon of each heart

Then I met you and you met me
There at the waterfall
How I touched you and you touched me
We never touched at all

Green for you has always been true
But black for me’s too cold
Your green awoke my dreaming soul
Exposing color bold

It’s green for you, now red for me
A tender rose unfurled
The green of you with the red of me
Blossoming in the world

A wild rose is a lasting thing
Growing amongst the ruins
Full of life despite neglect
And you know the place one blooms

A wild rose is a pretty thing
To decorate your room
All pink and leafy splendor
To cheer away the gloom

A wild rose is a thorny thing
Its vines tear you apart
You can’t grasp it directly
Work gently towards the heart

Push aside its catching strands
Leave the petals strewn
Take the freshest flowers
For more will blossom soon

A wild rose is a stubborn thing
You may plant it if you dare
Take a cutting from its base
But make your choice with care

For a wild rose is a feral thing
You can’t charm it to your will
Forever spreading beauty
Is its nature to fulfill

Touch is the soft secret of the soul,
the whimper of rose, as it’s petals fold
Like light that reveals the hidden path,
your whispers of love open my heart

Our love is the wisest counsel of all,
In silence, we learn how angels  fall
Hold me like I’m your cliff and sky
birth me breath, like we’ll never die

To know in part and forget the whole
touch is the silent secret of the soul.

its a beautiful thing
to have a heart full of love
until you lay alone at night
clutching desperately
as thorny roses of hate
tighten around your chest
and fill your eyes with blood
that runs down your cheeks
the metallic tang
into your mouth
you are struggling to breathe
and whimpering like a wounded dog

My friend goes, gives me

a rose from the bush, alas --


still in the bud, picked.

Would a rose by any other name be as sweet?
Would a rose gifted by another sweep me off of my feet?
Would the fragrant scent make me so softly weak?

Never have I ever been one for flowers,
Their allure held but for a few hours,
A vibrant life for temporary display,
Before they drop all their petals, wilt away.

A perspective from closed eyes open to see,
Finding sincerity in the twelve before me,
Watching their flirtatious shadows dance
As the petals sway to the breezes romance

Studying their intricate details,
Have I never read the story each rose tells?
Sewn into the earth, cared for, tended to,
Their history of love, unfolding in bloom
Like books unfurling pages, one by one
Each petal a testament to the tenderest love

I imagine his eyes, the warmth of his heart
For a moment their stories and my own were of one part.
Gifted with the purest intentions, a hopeful beginning
From those hands seeking love, never-ending

So would a rose by any other name be as sweet?
If from the hands of the one who gifted them to me.