The first blooming rose is the first to die;
Its bloody petals brought on its demise.
Though on the ground where those petals do lie,
Spring will bring about an early reprise.
Their bloom seeks affection from the many;
Only the few care after it withers;
Yet thinking they’re entitled to plenty
More, the roses continue their blithers.
In the sun the rose radiates passion;
Its promises of love lure in victims
Who fail to know that their lives are ashen.
Learning reveals a life full of schisms.
Mothers and daughters and sisters and wives
Remain weary of roses for their lives.