The poet and the Rose

The poet and the Rose

He stands there in silence, the wordsmiths tries in vain, he cannot find the words to describe this Rose, there's nothing in his brain

Every descriptive word he thinks of, simply will not do, they are not even close to, describing the beauty that is you

No words can describe her softness, he can't describe her smell, he stands there with Quill in hand, but has no ink in his well

Lost in admiration, bedazzled by the deep Green colour of her leaves, she is so breath taking, he finds it hard to breath

Even her sharp and jagged thorns, still have a certain charm, though they're to protect her, he knows they'll do no harm

Grasping for the right words, he can't find that special line, the poet stands dumbfounded, he cannot find the rhyme

So forgive him for his failure, he's tried with all his might, to tell the world of your beauty.
one day he'll get it right

So until then accept his offering, forgive how the stanzas stumble, he tried his best to write for you, though all he did was fumble

He cannot work out what to say, he looks to the Gods above, then he realises why, its the affliction known as love

The Poet is in love with the Rose, so all words would fail to say, how beautiful you are to him, though he's tried to write today

Ron