A man found a rare and precious blue rose,
Its existence impossible, even in prose.
Having never laid eyes on a more beautiful sight,
He loved it, embraced it, became its knight.
He indulged how it felt to hold in his arm,
Its grace a mystery, but part of its charm.
Idealized, upheld, the rose became key
To his breath, his vitality, even his glee.
Spontaneously choosing to express affection,
Because the sight of the rose, to him, was perfection.
With late night decisions and passionate pleas,
He protected the rose from any unease.
So the rose wanted nothing but to wilt in his clutch.
Yet soon, its thorns – he grew aware of their touch.
He distanced his hand… he could love from afar,
Then the rose soon became as unique as a star,
Just as treasured perhaps as his arm or his hand.
New trinkets arose that attained his command.
Anything different was now what was rare,
How could he love what he never could spare?
And though the rose was still greatly admired,
It no longer felt extraordinarily desired
Because the man no longer went out of his way
To surprise, or soften, or even… just stay.
So the rose, a mere rose, remained in his vase
Amongst the trinkets, the stars, and the distant embrace.