The Rose of RegretMature

Living freely lacking consequence

So naïve, young, a child of Aphrodite  

Roses brimming with new found opulence

Soft thorns soon to harden, touch lightly

 

The rose was lost to all that is pure

Its thorn pricked its first victim, unforgiving pain

It pierced your skin, forget the original allure

Turn around victim, walk away. Blame

 

Yourself for venturing to trust

But Aphrodite’s child sought only pleasure

The analogue weakness was meaningless lust

Thorns piercing you, victim, at relative leisure

 

What’s the use in regretting those daggers of thorns?

They have already grown, damaged the innocent

Daggers of pain hide the rose that mourns

Alone. Fortunately ostracised. Learning to repent. 

The End

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