Being a simple,
supple, beautiful rose,
I spread my petals
of affection on your ways,
To render you a
cozy voyage,
And flavor your
days.
But you began
suspecting,
“There may be
thorns hidden,
In between the
innocent petals,
Otherwise, why is
this rose so emotional?
How can one be so sacrificial
and selfless?
In this world of
ego, vanity and greediness.”
Your rose was always
decent and innocent,
And did not ever
contain a thorn in her heart.
You were suspicious
of the intentions of the flower,
That blossomed to bestow
you flavor and pleasure.
The rose failed to
dispel your doubt,
With all her cries
and sincere efforts.
Neither was there
any remedy to your suspicion,
Nor the rose had
any proof of her honest intentions.
You changed your
passage,
She was left
deserted, dejected on the way,
To scorch in the
sunlight of separation,
To perish in the
blaze of dejection.
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