• bhavyaaa 10w

    These beauteous marvels,
    Picked from the canvas,
    Of some invisible picasso,
    Unfurl like the arms,
    Of a new lovesick bride.
    The one awaiting her man's embrace.
    Blushing all crimson,
    These roses try to match her rouge lips,
    To honour her seraphic grace.
    Drenched in an ocean of red hue,
    Dripping in the lover's holy dew,
    Shining under the moonlit romantic sky,
    Devoid of thorns and slightly shy,
    They stand here, delicately tied,
    In the hands of the lover,
    Waiting to be accepted,
    By the lovely bride.
    Fragrant and delicate,
    They curl at the edges,
    Duplicating the silhouette,
    Of the bride in white.
    Who stands reminiscent,
    Under the rusty streetlight,
    Exactly where they first met.
    Reddened even more,
    Densely entangled in love,
    And sprinkled with tears of joy,
    These roses make their way,
    Close to the bride's bosom,
    To whisper sweet lasting promises,
    And take her to that blissful cry.
    It is visible no more,
    Who's prettier in all,
    the charming roses,
    or the hands holding them,
    Or more handsome than all,
    Is the giver himself.
    What matters is the bond,
    These roses have died for,
    Should outlast them,
    And shouldn't fade.
    Just like these roses,
    Outlast their own death
    And continue to smile,
    Till they're shoved aside in neglect.