Women are like roses,
Men are human beings.
Roses have throns,
But hands want to touch.
We realize that women are roses,
That have thorns, maybe poison.
And men are the wanderers,
That pluck flowers as they go.
But oh, the man comes across the rose,
And he can't help but reach for it.
He went to fast,
He gripped too hard
And thus his hand bleed.
The woman,
The rose,
Had bit his hand.
And still stood tall.
The rose only protected herself.
Who could say the world is always safe?
Thus leading to the bleeding hand.
Poor rose,
She did not know,
That his love for her was real.
So he bent back down,
Argued with it,
And got bit once again.
That is no way to talk to a lady,
And he calmed himself down.
He tried and tried,
But because of her hurt,
She made his hand cry red.
The poor man walked away,
And returned with a kife,
And softly spoke his words.
He said he loved her,
And as he said why,
He gently cut off her thorns.
One by one,
cutting them off,
The rose gave in.
She slowly gained his trust,
Step by step,
And his heart grew.
When the last thorn slid away,
His body filled with joy.
He told the rose,
He will be her thorns,
And protect her from any damage.
He saw her every minute,
Every hour,
Everyday.
As she stood tall in a glass dome.
Such a small dome,
But it felt like home,
And her leaves touched the glass happily.
As time flew by,
Her love never fated,
Even if she knew she'd be the first to leave.
He sat by her,
On her deathbed,
With her bloomed petals in his hands.
But her leaves fell out,
And her petals,
And her last breath came.
A tear slip through his eye,
And picked her up.
Only to burry her below the dirt.
As he went to the house,
And looked at her empty glass,
He saw something strange.
He picked it up,
And spotted an open seed,
Ready for the new plant to come out and see the world.
He plant her by his porch,
And stroke the soft fragile petals.
He visited her every minute,
Every hour,
Every day.
Hoping someday,
She will become,
As great as the last.