Rose

By Priyasha Gupta

That rose which sits in my garden,

By the bush nearest the far wall.

Redder than red, as if from my lips it bled!

Uncannily large, lumbering tall.

With sharp angles, seductively entwined,

I see nothing there, but conceit.

No other child of this bush ever grew so wild,

No rose smelled as sickly sweet.

For all my word, the rose was praised.

But the bees, they had more sense I suppose.

They wouldn't come near, out of some sort of fear,

Of something sinister about that rose.

By Priyasha Gupta