Roses

Sickeningly sweet perfume,

 Of velvet petals,

 Drawer of blood,

 Poison-hot thorns,

 But so beautiful,

 So overused,

 And sullied by cliche,

 But new and original,

 Like a well-written song,

 That has aged,

 But stayed perfect,

 Immortalised, Like the rose,

 Crimson; white;black;silver;yellow,

Oh, the cliched crimson,

 But still the most beautiful of them all.

The End

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