a bitter taste lingered in her mouth,
a taste of deception,
who knew something so beautiful but fragile,
could leave so many tender scars on the soul,
something like the beauty of a rose,
but its thorns so slyly hidden-
what fools we are,
mistaking love for beauty,
yet you look on in sobriety,
at such a lovely thing; we are deceived.
Forgetting every rose has thorns;
and accompanying love is pain.
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