Poem: Crimson Rose
A Petal's single beauty grows,
To this I smell that of a rose.
The mystic wonder to which I gauge,
Brings all the mystery of her age.
As dew upon her petals glisten,
So do her eyes, they speak, I listen.
But tis her lips that shame the rose,
As rich as blood this crimson shows.
Such beauty only runs so deep,
As thorns may prick, I sit and weep.
But Hope have I, I must adhere,
T'is you I love, my rose, my dear.
By, Michelle N. Vos
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