I once held a red red rose,
whose beauty was far too great for poetry and prose.
Every morning I would awake to the sight of her majesty,
fragile and small, yet never lacking in potency.
For her hero’s would fall, taking a deadly wound.
The wise would go mad, writing nuisance of her grandeur.
Regardless happy I remained never giving it much thought,
Only knowing with certainty that she was the subject of my every thought.
Than one day when the sun shone with all his fervor;
I felt a pain, small but hurtful unbeknownst to me before.
Alas! A thorn my rose had grown.
I was sickly grieved so; she was my very own.  
I released her from my hold,
knowing that was what she wanted from old.
Turning my back on her, I walked away.
Vowing never to return to such a place.
Time passed and my rose I did miss so.
Breaking my vow I walked towards her like I would do so long ago.
Finding her alive in the cold and in the snow;
I was overjoyed to have such luck.
Ready to take her with me once more;
And give her nourishment she sorely needed so.
I stopped myself remembering the thorn she had indeed grown.
I shook my head she was no longer my own.
So much hurt and so much pain,
yet from her I walked away.
My heart did ache so;
and I vowed to never own another rose.