The Mirage of a Rose

I walked down the lane.                            
They handed me a rose.

“What a beautiful thing.                                  

Such a lovely fragrance.”

The leaves pricked me.                       

“It must be a mistake.

They wouldn’t do this.

Perhaps they might not know.”

Again, they handed me a rose.

“Oh… what a nice thing.

Oh… they are so kind.”

The thorns pricked me.

“This is unintentional.

I might be overreacting.

It is my imagination.

Why am I so negative?”

Again, they handed me a rose.

The thorn pricked me.

My hands burned.

I looked.

My hands had turned black.

“Oh… no, my hands!

What happened?

Why would they do this?

It pains so much.”

“THEY WERE NOT GIVING ME A ROSE…”






 

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