A Rose

Like a Rose, my love; full of thorns
and I am wounded hour by hour
from spikes that are his armour.

He is beautiful, with fine red petals.
They adorn his greenery. So lush;
this graceful and proud flower.

But why so prickly, hot, then cold,
when all I yearn is tenderness,
and all I seek is warm embrace.

Like a Rose he stings; day by day
and when I cling to him, I bleed
as he watches true love, fade away.

poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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