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A Roses’ Kiss

Born in spring.
Vibrantly coloured and as open as the flames of passion;
truly regaling as life’s lover.

And yet,

dead by winter.
Harsh to touch and as crimson
as blood.
Contained within is a blackened heart; shrivelled, old, withered, and weak.

It has been loathed for its beauty,
then hated for its thorns.
Through time and torture
this vividly striking blossom wilts.

Slowly succumbing
to the everlasting scorn.
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