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Confessions of The Thorns of A Rose Stem

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  • Confessions of The Thorns of A Rose Stem

    I am, the thorns of a rose-stem,
    The Protector of my beloved, from the millions of Machiavellians,
    Who desire her, lust after her, seek her.
    For them, she is but a prized possession, a trophy awaiting to be displayed to pals and peers,
    Who admire her, adore her and revere her, for the unparallel beauty and fragrance she possess.

    I am, the thorns of a rose-stem,
    A witness, to how these selfish sycophants, decorate their abodes with my beloved,
    For she is a symbol of love, of peace, of friendship; her radiance so powerful, it can brighten up anybody’s day,
    But alas!, that’s all she is to them, a symbol,
    For they discard her and replace her just as quickly, the minute her transient beauty fades away.

    I am, the thorns of a rose-stem,
    A silent friend, who can but look at how these hypocrites’ ignorance silently kills my beloved,
    For their callousness and apathy, makes my love sad and despondent,
    Till her petals wilt and her magnificence diminishes,
    And all I wonder, am I the only one,
    Who sees that its neither the contour, nor the beauty, nor fragrance, that makes my rose my rose,
    But, the answer lies much deeper, her heart.

    I am, the thorns of a rose-stem,
    A doomed lover, who is destined to be estranged from his beloved,
    For that’s all I am, an irksome thorn, and she a paragon of beauty,
    And all I can do is wait, Wait as I’m slowly cut from her, wait for her to look at me, so I may confess my undying love,
    But alas! She’s too preoccupied attending to the flatteries of her ‘admirers’ to notice me.

    I am, the thorns of a rose-steam,
    A martyr, who sacrifices himself, again and again,
    For every sacrifice is worth the pain,
    Knowing my suffering brings joy and happiness to the one I love,
    But how I wish, I wasn’t a thorn,
    For thenI could be with my beloved if only for a few more moments, just her and me, till death drew us apart.

  • #2
    Nice one. Makes me think of Alexander Blok — a Russian poet — not because of the style, though, rather because he treated his real life beloved one like an unreachable ideal, feared of even touching her. It's needless to say that that made them both unhappy.

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    • #3
      My body is a cage that keeps me
      From dancing with the one I love
      But my mind holds the key ...

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