The Bride's Bouquet

This isn't about any other rose he gave you,
That'd perish as our love;
It'd remain within the misty Lavender hue,
The intoxicating smell that'll keep you high above.

And as her petals are no longer in crimson shades,
The black will make you forget my whites;
Then you'll find the Jasmine peeking over their heads,
Giving you about enough sight.

But her thorns would remain even on her verge of end,
For your grip doesn't seem it escaped to suffer;
Now that you may stop to pretend,
And appreciate what the Lavender had to offer.

Alas her petals would fall,
And will emerge the Jasmine that had overslept;
But there won't be any aroma in the hall,
As you woke them while it was past the sunset.

This isn't about any of his roses for which you left all behind,
Now as your love, they'd perish;
While the essence of one true love will continue to unwind,
Guess I was the widower yet you weren't the widow who'd cherish.