Roses are a forbidden kind of red,
one that leaves thorns in a wanderer’s head
sullen and sinned for wanting things to begin.
every glance she gives would redden one’s skin.
see, who could resist these kisses to the wind?
amid, the wanderer’s heart then falls apart,
rooting for a bloom selfish in art, knowing
eventually wanders end when summer departs.
Risen in principle, risen in past,
every petal would leave a lasting mark. So
dance through the seasons, and leave nothing dark.
There are people we shouldnt fall for. But we fall anyway. And halfway through we kind of stop running away from it. We kind of just flow.