Roses Without Thorns
My apologies to you, Rose,
Where we were to go
Or what would happen.
You had been plucked long ago,
But desired to fasten
Yourself on solid soil
In the hopes of lasting.
My tears pour through
For what you chose.
A beauty for all to view
No thorns on their clothes;
I am left to suppose
That you did it to cope—
Now I understand that's not what you were to do,
But you have to remember that I was young too;
I had not a clue to foresee the brew—
And save you.
I can imagine those men up in the stands,
Passing wrapped roses from hand to hand,
And you're left in a trance, once again,
Until you wither and are forgotten.
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