I can’t stand the sight of a rose in bloom.
So much potential, wasted on beauty,
Just one way to go until fateful doom.
Just tempting for some lonely eyes to see,
And bring it far too soon to fateful doom.

Now a budding rose is a sight I can stand.
Just like morning’s dew, it gives new life to view,
Perhaps feel its softness in my aching hand.
A beautiful bud, with a dark crimson hue,
It has not been roughed by time’s eternal sands.

But as it grows, it becomes a rose,
Losing early green and turning gold.
It lives to die for elegant prose.
And lose all its worth while growing old.
If it hasn’t been used for someone’s pose.

But in the end,
We are the same.
Time is to lend,
Not just to frame.
All roads meet in
The end.

All roads meet in the end.

~ Have an amazing day!