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Poem: White Rose

Updated on September 25, 2015

by Grace Peterson

A bouquet of beauties
Each different from one another.
Every rose, every peddle
Special in their own way
lay spread across the mellow meadow.

Only one stands out from the rest
To catch the eye of the sun
And be plucked amongst the red,
Losing its vanity.

The White Rose was once
Pure as snow:
Scatheless, untouched by men's hands,
Yet surrounded by the tainted red.

Reborn once again,
She is as red as the veins of lust
Pulsing through our
Yearning bodies.


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