If I were but a rose...

by Mike K2

I wished I had been born a rose.
Not a cheap thornless beauty,
squandered on a whim for one they chose.

Causing a temporary smile and passionate blush,
left to wither and die when the beauty is gone,
destined to be discarded without a care
or pressed as a memory forgotten in attic's hush.

I want to be a splendid bush laden with thorn.
A sought out treasure of intimate approach,
even as it pricks the lover's skin...
Producing blood and exclaimed scorn.

Becoming a parable for cared-for love with blood oath,
yet tendered with love and caring dedication,
so this bared bush will show love so wantingly soweth.

To be protected from and looked forward to in icy life;
wonderfully longed for with patient wait as life renews.
Sensing budding anticipation and waiting spirit shines,
then to be a coveted gem whose effect warms strife.

What a wonder to be held with esteemed embrace,
cherished, remembered, nurtured, sought out;
with tender loving feelings and conviction,
and with affection be shown, talked about and chased.

But I fear I am nothing more then a weed,
to be plundered and ravished as prey,
ignored, uprooted and hated for my seed.

At best, destined to be destroyed in child's game;
but more likely to reviled and trampled under foot,
pissed on, or pushed aside for that thornless rose.
Nare to catch an eye, weed and rose aren't the same.

So there are many men who feel more like weeds,
each with honest thoughts and continence;
but passed up for cheap thornless fleeting beauties,
a few only occasionally capturing a fancy and willingness
from a kind soul and deft hand willing to bleed.

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If I were but a rose...

by Mike K2

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