It is pink, the sweetest pink of dawn's early morning rise, spread upon the white of innocence, settled around the yellow of sunshine. A beautiful yet simple thing. A mere rose.
And like all beautiful things it is sought after. A treasure to be stolen, a flower to be plucked, a temptation to be tamed. A possession to be loved.
It is oft forgotten that sweet roses have briars. p***k. And bleed.