The scent of a rose is as fresh as the earth after its rained.
The sub aqueous colour, as red as boiling blood.
It’s thorns as sharp as the silver edge of a blade,
Still pretty as it withers away by the window,
Distressingly bidding farewell to the world.
Oh darling you’re a blossom, don’t let this society get to you,
They’re all the thorns.