Flower Poem

I wrote this when I was trapped inside by a storm. My friend had given me a rose just before I saw her for the last time, and this poem was more a reflection of how I felt her personality was at that moment: cold and dangerous over a mask of beauty and calm. And who's to say that roses aren't the same?

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Crimson Rose

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Published: March 2013

A sign of beauty,
A symbol of grace.
Its pride runs strong
At a very fast pace.

It's wild like a wolf,
It's gentle like the breeze,
And it has a burning honour.
It's not eager to please.

But carelessness pays.
It is armed with thorns.
It'll laugh while you're bleeding
As your skin gets torn.

It is loved worldwide,
But don't be fooled by its pose.
It holds ancient, dark secrets.
Beware of the Crimson Rose.



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