Rose Red

 

 

 

 

 

I am prickly, admittedly.

I come by it rightly.

Organically evolved defensive weapon

(note, no offensive weapon attached).

You must approach me with care.

Feel the velvet of my vibrant leaves, gently.

My flower, radiant in grace and wonder.

Musical poetry wafting, my enchanted perfume

calls for the discerning touch.

But grasp too hard, too clumsily,

without reflection, a thousand tiny cuts

push you far away.

In no time, you will heal,

leaving me to bleed forever,

attempting to clear from my system

your poisonous residue.

.

.

.