I'm like a budding rose, struggling to stay alive from the poisoned seed you sown.
I could have made it, with the fact of a miracle that I ever grown.
Past spring, summer, fall and winter, you left me to wither.
The sun came, the sun gone.
Morning dew weighed on my blush pink petals like overnight's weep.
But young thorns don't prick.
The roots weak, clawed deep.
Young love can last forever.