A Rose Without Thorns

Such sweet beauties are these in life, trimmed, cut to perfection.
The rose is still a rose kepted in it's surrounding for a reason.
Welcoming an astonishing galore of colors & all types of alluring aromas & pleasures.
Well grown in a fertile garden, just waiting to be picked someday.
Surely they are a woman's favorite flowers, like her inner heart that's both beautiful but warns beware.
Like a woman's gentle touch & to her sensitive layers of adoration.
Beautiful, fresh with a nice fragrance.
Her endeavors are there, but her appeal are well kepted secrets.
Surprisingly she's not like any other rose that is perfectly ready to defend herself, if she's not carefully picked.
Alerting the one that's gone in too fast without even thinking, seeing only one thing & not her defense mechanism.
But a delicate rose without thorns is treated respectfully as oppose to being treated extremely cautiously.
But the Queen of all roses sits high & centered, as to be admired from great distances.
And guarded with sharp thorns with thick painful thistles.
Guarded so carefully like the prize flower she is.
Saving herself for the right moment but just waiting to be picked.
Finally the senseless charade of a rose ends, then finally put somewhere high on a shelf or table.
I'm time life slowly leaves her, then abandoned & left alone in the end & for surely only taken for granted.

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This poem relates to a woman's beauty for it is to her advantage & she's often treated respectfully & desirable accordingly to the way she carries or treats herself around others. Similarly just as admirable to nature's beauty the rose.