Seeing beauty from very close,
I often doubt the softness of rose.
Now I do cower in extreme fear
Of such a flower that is dear
To anyone, who likes to dream...
But with my panic I still scream.
You point out to me it's my error
Still I doubt the rose out of terror,
To say it's all but a brutal drama
I cannot get rid of the trauma.
But with things seen from hindsight
It may also give you such fright.
Maybe what you tell is the truth
Yet I doubt a thing soft and smooth,
With its soft and subtle persistence
It may not let you put any resistance,
Killing you in your own comfort zone,
Thus you die being a stepping stone.