She stands a delicate pink,
Behind her a ruffian huffs to the largest heights.
Her blush blotches pink, mottled red of passion,
The ruffian's a mess of grey veins and patched skin.
For the eye she dances,
For the fingers they prick.
She, the flower,
And her parent, the thorn.
To all her day's delight she may lure with a sweet visage and soft fragrance,
To all their night's duty, they will ensure none take her for another's gain.
For those who seek a dalliance with the rose,
Expect a duel with her thorns.
For no matter how lovely the daughter,
How grotesque the parent,
Or how cunning the lover,
A thorn exists to defend her child.
YOU ARE READING
Extras // Mainly Poetry
RandomI'm in a creative writing class, so I'm just going to throw everything in here.
