Little pink roses enchanted my eyes,
Mouths perfectly formed, their necks stretched in hope,
Convinced that they could reach the oak tree's highs
Despite each turn of the kaleidoscope.
But their fairytale world turned blurred and sharp.
Heady elation led to the abyss,
And they ignored how the passers-by harped;
"Only a short-lived joy can stem from this."
They key to success is to not look down
As you may not like what's been left behind.
Indeed, little rose-heads creased up with frowns
On seeing each fang to which they'd been blind.
The well of the self is temptingly deep.
There are reasons for the secrets it keeps.
