I love the rose
I love the thorn.
Only when it’s not piercing.
I love the red.
I love it’s red.
Only when I’m not bleeding.
A rose by any other name?
But who smells a name! The other name!
Rose is but a name caressed and addressed as a noun.
It is in love where; smells, touch, a thought, a prick, a noun! Leaves a moment, memory.
Love always has, always leaves you in the conundrum.
It is felt. The feel as nostalgia, as a moment as a name.
“Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.”
In love as in war; what is, just is.
As we now say, if you die, you die.
If you love, you fall. It’s so red, crimson red.
It’s bloody, like all pricks. It pricks.
Pricks, that guard the essence of blossom. As a bud, till it withers. Petal after petal. Till dry do it part.
Pricks that remind you of the sacrifice that is, to love. A pact. A cryptic pact.
For he that dares not grasp the thorn. Should never crave the rose.