Beauty and thorns

Mistook passion for love grabbed the rose without a glove

Held it with a bleeding hand, its beauty did me command 

She did not ask to be picked and meant no harm to inflict

A flower I did not deserve, wilting charm my desire to serve

Took her from where she was grown, gave her a new glass home

Did her best to look pretty, a cut flower, such a pity

No strength in a watery vase, drooping sadness on flower's face

For those that love a rose leave her to thrive where she grows