Love is a rose with soft petals of red,
But wicked thorns are spread across its stem,
Singing the sad melodies of the dead:
Of foredoomed loves lost and lovers condemned.
No regret is sung, for the rose's scent
Is all the blind bliss that men may desire.
With their minds full of fever dreams, half dreamt,
Young lovers condemn caution to the pyre.
For the red rose of Love is something rare,
Which too many never found, or have lost:
Warmed by memories of warmth, they despair,
Never tithing the rose's scarlet cost.
As young lovers hold their Love close, blood flows:
Its thorns pierce, but they must not let it go.
YOU ARE READING
The Sonnets of My Life
PoetryThe sum of my life distilled into a series of Sonnets.
