How the roses smell so sweet,
And their thorns a warning sign,
A signal we all should heed,
Before we cross that line.
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For the rose itself is not sweet,
It’s not fun, enjoyable, or grand,
It simply stabs you every time you try,
To submit to its command.
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A scent so unique but not so true,
It wants to pull you in,
So you can be just one more pawn,
As it commits its evil sin.
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With petals so delicate to the touch,
Make contact and you’ll break them,
And you’ll be the one to have to clean it up,
As they fall from their injured stem.
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Such a regal beast it hypnotizes us all,
As we strive to feel its touch,
And though it may look so fine,
It is nothing but a crutch.
