There once was a boy,
Young and immature,
Who was very fond of picking roses.
He would never pick more than one;
It would always be the most charming and enchanting one.
The purpose of his doing was rather simple,
He would give it to a young lady;
To whomever was of his liking,
To whomever interested him profoundly.
If she were to refuse the rose,
The young man would have to stand there,
With the flower in his hand,
With it's thorns piercing through his skin.
Scratches and blood dripping,
As the boy would try to crush it's stem,
As the rose would later be forgotten,
As it would wither away with time.
Thorns of Rejection.
If she were to accept his offering,
The twosome would cherish eachother,
Equally grasp a section of it's stem,
Until one would let go of it.
The pain both lovers would have to bear,
The prickles scratching and pricking on the skin of their palm,
Until one would get fed of it,
Leaving their partner wondering,
How it all turned out this way.
Thorns of Sorrow and Despair.
A few years later,
He had grown into a fine gentleman.
Charming, attractive, intelligent, keen.
Wandering through the fields,
He would be very diligent in his search,
Casting about for a rose,
One that was resplendent, flawless.
Cultivated and chivalrous,
Sedate, mature, collected, shrewd,
He would search very thoroughly,
Looking for a female partner.
A pulchritudinous young lady,
Enchanting and charming,
With a vivacious character.
Once he had found the rose,
He approached her,
The one person he had always been very fond of,
And in an affectionate and romantic way,
He handed her the rose.
She accepted it.
They loved eachother, cared for eachother.
The prickles, the thorns,
They inflected pain upon both of them,
But not one nor the other would let go of the rose,
Simply due to one thing,
Their love for eachother was greater than the pain.
