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