The Rose By Him

The delicate rose that lay in my hand, vibrant vermilion, silk like petals.
Oh, how beautiful this is to take even a glance at.

But it must not like me.
The thorns that protrude from its stem.
The horns that are wanting to stab me.
Pricking my skin, attacking the innocent me, why must you hurt me?

It is worth to wonder, but what I really must ponder,
Why is it that I do not notice? But for pain I do not feel.
As the blood trickling down my finger goes undiscovered,
the thick red that paints patterns on my hand,
please tell me why does it go unnoticed?

Why is this pain being masked by this different emotion?
Why is euphoria what I’m feeling?
Happiness, joy, glee. All of this put before the pain,
Why? Could it be, because of he?
Because I’m being drowned in his chestnut eyes.
As I can feel my fingers run through his well kept hair.
This rose, given by he, I guess all this pain it puts me through can be overseen.

With this rose in my hand, I will wait for his presence to appear before me.
I will indeed wait for thee.