The rose is a rose,
And was always a rose.
But the theory now goes
That the apple's a rose,
And the pear is, and so's
The plum, I suppose.
The dear only knows
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose -
But were always a rose.
Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger an endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower and you, it's only seed
It's the heart, afraid of breaking that never learns to dance
It's the dream, afraid of waking that never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken who cannot seem to give
And the soul, afraid of dying that never learns to live
When the night has been too lonely and the road has been too long
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter far beneath the winter snow
Lies the seed that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes the rose
Oh the red rose, what a pain you are to photograph properly.
The blown out, saturated red, the funky chromatic aberration.
Not what I saw through my viewfinder.
I played with your hue, saturation and luminosity levels and I'm still not sure it looks right.
But your velvet, curved petals, forever spiraling from the center,
Exudes graces and all that is beautiful.
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