Fear of Roses

Why do you frighten me so?

You are but a delicate rose.

Your thorns have withered and fell,

and yet still,

I dare not risk your touch.

Your scent is a subtle, distinguished beauty;

a stimulating sensation.

Your fragile elegance begs of me

quiet admiration.

I could run my fingers across your leaves,

and watch you for hours, swaying in the breeze,

but plucking you, and keeping you, It seems obscene.

I fall to my knees and shrink.

In the shadow of your form, I fear disappointing you

more than ever before.

One day I will pluck you, and place you in a vase.

I’ll sit at a table, and watch you whither with age,

but I know today is not the day.

I sit at my desk, the air thick with regret

That you’re swaying in the breeze and not asleep in my bed.

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