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A thorn rose prickle
brings a blood red trickle,
bitter iron rust.

Disgust in an expression
after a thorn rose confession;
of crimson of ruby of scarlet.

Dainty puddles descending
an aching throat,
smudged by the fingers of
one so fickle;
the one addicted
to a thorn rose prickle.

He and she found themselves
quite lone
desire to love
torched to the bone,
ashes blown
to a far out zone.

One must know
that it is foolish to go
collecting romance
where the thorn rose grow,
for a thorn rose prickle
by a love most fickle
brings a blood red trickle,
turns bitter iron rust
to bitter iron dust.




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AlmneyKThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
Apr. 1 at 6:05 pm:
Thank you so much for you kind comments. I really really appreciate it. This poem is a sneak to my next book of poetry. If you're interested, take a look at my first book at almneyking.com. Thanks :)
 
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nescapingThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
Apr. 1 at 12:42 pm:
Wow... this is gorgeous. You've really got a great sense of rhyme and rhythm, and it all fits within your theme, and that's just really, really awesome. Kudos on your use of diction, alliteration, etc. It really worked out well.
 
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