I am the bud and the blossom,I am the late-falling leaf.- Paul Dunbar The Paradox Poem
Is not the velvet rose always seen
As soft as a summer night’s breeze,
Yet once dried their piercing thorns
With emerald leaves tattered and torn
Become knives that cut all too soon.
Blood spilled from the opened wound
Is as red as crushed perfume petals
Falling as they budded and bloomed
While they flourished among summer nettles.
And if I, my darling, am the perfect red rose
Lying upon your silken bed in such sweet repose
Are you a honed knife that cuts straight to the bone
Will you leave me to bleed in your bed, alone
But should you do so, my love you must know.
Once forsaken, I will not accept my heart’s bitter blight
I will be the cold moon that chills and the hot…
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