A white rose bounded by thorns sharp as secrets,
She reached out ignoring the risk, hope over fear.
Soft petals, pure and untouched, waiting for a love.
Thorn, sharp and bright whispered of what could be,
Each drop of blood a story untold.
The rose watched her silent, still and cold,
Promising everything, yet offering emptiness
Her fingers traced its delicate edge, feeling the pain of too much.
Droplets of red slowly painting the white as crimson,
Turning beauty into something raw with each wound.
The thorns kept their promising future,
Singing, dancing between touch and distance.
She bled with agony, wondering as love or the price of belief
Each tender tear, white turning red, unforgotten,
Her heart caught between what is and what might be,
If pain is love or love's cruel will
Between the thorns and the rose grace, she dwells red!
Bleeding, believing, breaking, and becoming.
Cheers
PS: Wanna edit but ‘m done for now!
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