Thee are as beautiful as a rose, and just as dangerous.
I’ve pricked my fingers on your thorns and still – after all
this time, all that I’ve thought and felt – I still bleed, forced to admire thee
from afar, to keep from pricking myself again, to bleed more.
I feel time’s passing as you must, too, these few days ahead
of the calendar turning and you get another year to add.
Thou are no less beautiful on that account, younger by far
when compared to me, still graceful, still desirable, regardless of how many
days on the calendar pass.
I make no comment save for this, which you will never read,
springing out of the all too sparce desert in which I live out my life.
You are the rose that grows here, ever present, undiminished
by the cruel world in which we all must live, each page, each passing day,
adding, not subtracting from they worth, and in these days, wandering this dry
place, I yet to fully realize how worthy thou art, even if – when all is said
and done, you will never hear these words of praise coming from these lips.
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