Real roses have thorns.
They shiver, and wither with time,
but they have a soothing scent
which lingers long after they’re gone,
in-between the dryness of the petals
and the breeze which kisses them.
Fake roses don’t have thorns which hurt,
They don’t shiver and wither with time.
Instead, they gather layers of dust,
the pain of being forgotten solidified,
with not even a lingering scent
to attract the passing breeze,
with not even a lingering scent
to receive a yearning kiss.
They shiver, and wither with time,
but they have a soothing scent
which lingers long after they’re gone,
in-between the dryness of the petals
and the breeze which kisses them.
Fake roses don’t have thorns which hurt,
They don’t shiver and wither with time.
Instead, they gather layers of dust,
the pain of being forgotten solidified,
with not even a lingering scent
to attract the passing breeze,
with not even a lingering scent
to receive a yearning kiss.