Roses

A rose I pick, every other day.

Its rich colour vibrant and true

Makes me think of sweeter times

When I knew the meaning of

you.

At least, back then, I thought I did,

I must’ve been so lost.

I thought I knew my way around,

But I just didn’t understand the

cost.

So here, I pick roses at ten.

Sweet light opens their eye.

Don’t mind the thorns, really,

They’re far weaker than

I.

For I have learned from my mistakes,

And roses next to my cot I laid.

I surrendered all I collected

And picked up what I should’ve

paid.