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He Picked me a Rose
He picked me a rose,
what a jesture at the time.
A subtle gift,
that told me he was mine.
He picked me a rose,
and the thorns left stains of blood.
He picked me a rose,
a certain gift of love.
I still remember
That sweet moment he passed it to me.
Being ever so careful,
so that I shall not scar my self with blood.
I still look back at that day.
I think of the sweet sent that passed our noses.
The sent of the rose that bonded our love.
It's hard to imagine that I am alone now,
that the gift was full of lies.
It's hard as you think about love that's now lost...
it's hard to watch that rose wilt, then die.
means you never forget sweet moments.. well...its good natured behavior... your this poem is also very sweet and with rich heartiest feelings done... good luck