The Brown, Red Rose

A long winter, long white winter
Blasé gust makes his body bitter
Coping with achromatic ambiance
Dozing eyes towards salience
Ending steps now, he started to contemplate
the Fury rose, bright and red
Guessing that it’s the one he’s searching
Head wanders, no thoughts but complying
It’s plucked, thorns cut effortlessly
Judged by bloom, it falls with gravity
Knight of the white horse, he hold it tight
Locking with palm, but not with his heart
while Musing how his forlorn has ended
Negligence has kept Red bended
he Owed her a place where aqua should be
Plus sunshine where pulchritude would tarry..
Questioning himself whether time will turn around?
for Red has now turned completely brown
So can he restore her red and bright,
To let her plucked by a real knight?
is Upholding her thorns worth his blood?
will he Veil his pain if she pricks his heart?
if Withholding my red is not worth your blood
then Xylan will never be kept by your side
You’ve realized now that deep inside,
Zealotry of yours has always been White.

Before you go, can you restore my red and bright?


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