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A Rose

A rose is pretty
To look upon;
The blood red petals
And its perfect form,
A single drop
Of morning dew,
Glistening like silver
On a moonlit night,
But what of its thorns?

Their piercing tips
Await your hand,
To reach and pluck
The single red rose,
To cause you pain,
And draw your blood.

So what of their thorns
Beneath the beautiful blossom?
What of the danger hidden
By the radiant glamour?

Pain in beauty;
Beauty in pain.

©2011





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