He is but a Rose

He is but a Rose, the undefinable beauty, an incomprehensible nature

She grasps him like a child, but she bleeds.

She wants to admire the beauty, his features as intricate as petals

But she bleeds.

He is but a Rose, delicate to harsh weather but silent in beauty

She longs to encompass this arrogant elegance

But she bleeds.

The blood is all over her hands; a dark, sweet red like cherry wine.

The blood is overwhelming, constantly pouring; an endless demise

She sees the cause, the scars; it is the thorns.

She learns his harshness has hurt her

But she bleeds.

Blood has now overtaken her life, but she does not mind

She does not comprehend her infatuation with the rose

But that is all she needs.

It is a love that does not love her back

So she bleeds.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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