The Thorny Rose
A fantasy on the demands of the Fae
Watch our story, now unfold
And see what glitters else than gold;
Cross the snow that starshine weeps,
Under which, the forest sleeps,
And dream-writ tales are told.
So beauteous, the hidden hoards,
As players now traverse the boards
Their treasure-hunt so well equipped
They may not ask who writes the script;
But seek their just rewards.
The rose that's cut from thorny stem
So like a precious floral gem,
But once it's cut, the wound must heal,
Howe'er it makes the lovers feel,
Ripped from its diadem.
And sight is but a single sense,
That beauty holds in rapt suspense;
And every one embraced alone
Is like a ring without a stone,
And scorns such base pretence.
The tiger's beauty, undenied,
When it at last is now espied;
But though it's framed in laurel wreath,
No crown can stop its fearsome teeth,
The beauty never died.
So beauty seekers, now I warn,
There is no rose without a thorn,
Nor tiger born without a tooth,
Nor verse without a dreadful truth,
Nor perfume that won't cloud the mind,
Nor honey that a mouth won't bind.
Nor song without a siren's call,
And so good luck to seekers all,
Lest you be left forlorn.
About the Creator
Drew Dunlop
Drew is a poet and author, writing slightly ominous fantasy-inspired poetry! He does that when the rest of life allows it, so read up, and more will be forthcoming.
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