roses are never blue, it's always been red,
but no, it also comes with white, yellow, and pink,
roses are not that splendid, its thorns make you hurt and bleed,
the rounds are imperfect, and petals fall when affected.
even so, I'll choose this flower over a thousand of another,
my hand hurts but I'll still hold its stem 'till my flesh stops bleeding,
the flaw of all rounds shows its uniqueness,
and every fallen petal shouts handle me with gentleness for I am fragile.
when I walk in my resplendent gown through the red carpet's pathway,
I'll love to notice that's something besides me is fiery,
resembling a fire inside a furnace and a lady in white in the midst,
in this final route I am taking,
your presence along the aisle, I am cherishing.