Image by Olya Adamovich from Pixabay 

All his thorns overlooked, she only saw his bud,
While the rest never saw a thing apart from the spikes.
Who was to blame for his heart buried in mud?
Who was to find his soul's delights?

She held the blossom too close to her bosom,
Paying no heed to her bleeding chasm.
For she saw a bud deserving of love,
For she saw not the thorns from above.

Her blood nurtured the bud and colored his thorns,
The bud was now a crimson bloom,
Ignoring the numerous heavy scorns,
She smiled through her impending doom.

Alas! In the end, the crimson floret stood alone,
In a field of broken barbs and blunt horns.
He looked for the young garden gal bemoan,
While she smiled from her grave of thorns.

.    .    .