The Rose

Everyone sees your fair blossom And everyone knows Your aroma is to die for But I’ve felt your sharp underside. I’ve crushed your blossom When I can’t take the pain Because I’ve felt your thorns And been wounded so many times. But I let it go And keep on walking by To experience your fragrant softness And water you in return But then, the bees come. Oh, the bees! Like a magnet in a tool shed You draw them in. You give away your sweet nectar And flirt your perfume And the rest of the world Disappears. All that matters Are the bees. They drive me away When I walk by. Then when they’ve had their fill You’re alone And you’ll die without me. Why haven’t I wandered by in so long? Because I have So many times But the best thing to do Was give up and preserve my sanity. But when I try to tell you why And how much the bees sting You close up And lock away all your surface beauty. All I see Are the wild knots of wood And leaves With edges like a saw. And finally your thorns That protrude like knives Threatening me and any mindless friendship That may remain. Everyone knows of your velvet beauty Everyone indulges in your sweet redolence But I’ve got the scars That give away your other side. Every rose has its thorns And yours hurt. Written March 2nd, 2002 © on Mar 02 2002 02:59 PM PST   18 • 0 • 10