It Blooms
In places it ought not,
This Rose.
Let not thorns of blood pierce
And taint such purity
When out of hatred and scorn
It has risen still.
Have we not been torn enough,
By such secrecy,
To have merited some kind of acceptance here?
Is it backwards?
A flower birthed of thorns.
I beg you,
Those of such high moral standing,
Detach me not from my love,
For it is an unforgivable crime
To tear the petals from a Rose
Even if born of Blood Thorns .




And if you like, I could give you the answer afterwards
.








27 old applause
