Roses

What are roses without their thorns
except that of their petals so soft
awaiting to blossom so bright
a token for a smile
plucked as to be sacrificed for love
they fight and scratch the battle
they are tools of messengers
Your fingers drip red with blood
a vase to place this creature
it crawls inside its outer petals
Scared in anticipation it sits
you pour water like mercy
it rains down along its vein
you take it to your love
with the gentle brush of her
fingers along its face
it turns to stone and brakes
she cries you comfort her
the rose turns to ash and thickens
she smiles, what for though?
she pours the mixture into her hands
and molds you a rose
A rose without thorns
A rose of opportunity
A rose of chance
A smile is born, strong it stands