• A rose blossoms
    as pale as the dew
    on a white winter morn.
    That which my heart aches to hold,
    but my hands will not touch for fear of harming its soft treasure.
    I am strong, such a contradiction to fragile,
    for the rose is just that. Its skin so soft ;
    unlike my granite touch. But to again hold a rose as soft
    would, never my years surpass, grant joy in place of pain.
    Such as I do feel in my heart of ice, is but like stepping on splintered glass to her,
    my rose.
    The tears she cries run as crystal down cheeks of petals,
    And pain, such a human concept.
    If it is human, then why do I feel such?
    To see my rose only but once more
    Could end this suffering.
    My sun,
    My light,
    My rose,
    My….. Isabella.