The Rose

Gavin Miller

4,5 December 2013.

Thank you for the rose,

But let me be.

That gentle roaring in your heart,

That you describe,

And that to love

That you ascribe,

Stirs not in me.

And your chattering words

Are less a lover's plea,

Than the nattering thoughts

Of a lust so loud,

It cannot see.

You say my cheeks are white,

Like driven snow,

And yet you long to know

Their warmth

Against your skin,

If only I will heed your plaintive song,

And glow with rosy praise's blush,

To hear your lover's gush.

But you are wrong.

I won't give in.

You say my waist and wrists are slim,

But they,

Like that flower's slender stem,

Are ringed with barbs,

To cut the hands of foolish men,

Who dare to venture near,

Leaving wiser, bloodied,

And in tears.

You say that I despise,

And fear my coal-black looks could kill,

But if my lethal, carbon eyes,

Should let fall shiny drops of diamond dew,

Do not thrill with sudden hope's surprise.

The longing in my grief

Is not for you.

And if I hide my lips so sweet,

As you protest,

Beneath a frown or sneer,

They are not for you to seek,

Young man.

A bee must pass the test,

Walking their moist velveteen,

Unbitten,

Then flying back to tell the queen.

As in my dream,

She will come to praise my ruby red,

And with a kiss,

Lie down in petalled flowery bed,

To find her bliss.

© 2013 Gavin Miller. All rights reserved.