Sometimes it’s the ones you love and care for the most that turn around and hurt you.
A thorn pricked my finger
And now it is bleeding;
I was giving the rose water,
It was so desperately needing,
And I simply reached down
To cup a flower and to smell,
When the thorn struck me,
And the bloom from my hand fell.
Why did it prick me
When to its needs I was tending?
I was just trying to smell
The scent it was sending
And to hold and admire
Its beautiful flower,
Why then did it stab me,
Try to turn my love sour?
