Within my withered garden moss
By fate and faith both odd and lost
Once I a flower came across
Which shone in penance like a rose.
The buds were blood, the petals matte
Not like any I ever met
Since the name’s to me unbeknownst
I called my flower simply “rose”.
My rose’s vanity I praised
Not like any I ever smelled
And though to thorns they bled
My rose’s smell my fingers kept.
My rose’s tenderness I prized
Not like any I ever felt
And though delusions they’d hint at
My rose’s touch my eyes had kept.
My rose’s charm I’d venerate
Not like any I ever glanced
And though the roots my senses pierced
My rose’s sight my heart had kept.
But then a gardener, half my wits,
Did come around and up he picks
My rose by hand that never fits
To sentiments she keenly yields.
Within my withered garden moss
I now must bear my rose’s loss
And since I miss my muse’s lips
The thorns I’ll kiss in fervent dreams.
