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Literature Text
A little rose forged in fire,
Yet knows no ash.
Its thorns grow thick and tall,
Deflecting imperfection, weakness, pain.
The rose grows strong,
Merely laughing at pain,
As though it were a simple game.
Its stone heart beats slowly,
It has been crushed, broken, deceived before.
It hid behind the thorns,
As it grew strong by time,
By heartache, by loneliness, by will.
It hides no longer,
The little rose the colour of blood;
Is not a rose like any other,
It is strong, passionate, deadly.
Yet knows no ash.
Its thorns grow thick and tall,
Deflecting imperfection, weakness, pain.
The rose grows strong,
Merely laughing at pain,
As though it were a simple game.
Its stone heart beats slowly,
It has been crushed, broken, deceived before.
It hid behind the thorns,
As it grew strong by time,
By heartache, by loneliness, by will.
It hides no longer,
The little rose the colour of blood;
Is not a rose like any other,
It is strong, passionate, deadly.
So here's another poem, this one is based on a character from this book that I've just finished reading called Rose Under Fire.
© 2014 - 2024 Ladra101
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