Would you believe me if I told you that
The history of the rose is stained in blood.
That the rose courts death
Like the grim reaper on Halloween wielding his scythe to cart souls to the afterlife.
The rose has bathed in more blood than Countess Elizabeth Báthory.
That's why it's petals are a deeper crimson than rubies.
It attracts you with its beauty,
But when you fail to handle the rose with care,
It pierces you with its thorns.
The skin is supposed to be a protective layer for your body,
But the rose doesn't care about that.
As soon as you mistreat this beautiful thing,
It strikes you where it hurts.
It has the capacity to be the most beautiful thing in the world
Or the very thing that brings you pain.
Now ain't that a metaphor for love?
-J.M.
YOU ARE READING
Lost
PoetryThis will be a collection of poems that I have written. everything is subject to editing. Thanks for the read. Enjoy.
