The Rose, the memoir of love;
expressing the feeling making hearts beat-
faster, louder, impatiently does it crave
for the soul you want to spend a lifetime with.
Red, like the colour of the blood,
promisng a relationshio so true, so beautiful, so pure,
unaffected by mist storms ahead or the flood;
promising a love without lust nor lure.
Red, like the colour of the heart,
as pure as that, staight from that, now tensed, so restless,
Whether t'would be pined like the dart?
Though fearing rejection, the Rose expresses.
Difficult is it to nurture, that Rose,
to intertwine those petals, blend those hues-
all these, 'course is what love is-
Tough to sustain, easier to lose!
The Rose, a memoir so true,
the beauty fade to wilt,withering out slowly
while in the darkest; life ceases without it's life
then, beauty admired by meagre, a few,
it strives to live, to love, to thrive;
Thorns upon biting the flesh
covering it in a sheet of red.
Yet so loved- that Bloody Rose,
everytime beautified, the beauty afresh.
Yet a memoir of love -the Rose,
promising 'love', as people vent,
'Promises are meant to be broken.'
Still received by the beloved ladylove,
to her, it's his portrayal of'love',
a memory forever, a token!
