To a Rose
A single white rose on the barren land. Pure, unmolested by mans seething hands. Dripping from petals and clefts with sweet dew, A single white rising up all fresh and new. A beautiful rose waiting to be picked, Young and lacking thorns unable to stick. Innocent to the cruel ways of the world, Such a desirable rose, just unfurled Ah sweet smelling rose who shall pick thee? Someone who is loving for all to see? To admire your beauty for all your days; Worshipping your looks with a zealots craze? Someone to place you in a silver vase' Admired like art behind a clear case? Your fragrance wafting, being slowly spread, As your colour transmutes from white to red. Whilst thou be loved so as your petals curl; Wilting, browns and reds beginning to swirl? Whilst thou still be admired past your prime? Someone to love you till the end of time? Prehaps your picker shall always hold true. The love holds up, always fresh, always new Shall you fair rose be plucked by a man? No, you're to be picked by a womans hand.
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