• Love.
    So simple, so intricate, so fragile;
    Like a small child's fingers reaching to grab a rose.
    Never seeing the thorns, only feeling them.
    A few tears here and there, and a band-aid to seal it all up.
    One drop of blood, and it is all over.
    One last tear, and the pain is gone.
    The rose itself left to wilt on the table,
    Neglect, darkening it's colors over time,
    And though the blood from the child is gone,
    The colors remains in the rose,
    A constant reminder, that even the most beautiful of things have their flaws.
    And love, like the rose, needs attention, care, and time.
    Or it will wither, and the hearts involved will break,
    Leaving nothing but a pile of dust behind.