A rose with thorns my lover be

A rose with thorns my lover be, her beauty's tale is twofold free.
In this garden of earthly delight, she stands a bloom 'neath the sun's warm light.
Her petals, soft as the down of swans, hold the hue of the dawn's first yawns.
Yet, amidst this tender blush, lies a truth that whispers, hush.

For not all that's fair is free of pain, and not all that's sweet is free of bane.
Her thorns, a fortress 'round her grace, guard her heart in this soft place.
My love, she is this rose so fine, with edges sharp as love's design.
Her laughter, a melody that floats, through the air like music notes.

But oh, the thorns that do ensnare, warn of a love that's raw and rare.
They speak of trials we must endure, for a love that's true and pure.
Her spirit, wild as the west wind's call, carries her through life's rise and fall.
In her eyes, the depth of skies, where the soul of nature lies.

She is fierce as the mountain's might, yet gentle as the moon's soft light.
A paradox, a mystery, in her I find life's poetry.
Her beauty, not just a surface seen, but a depth that's felt, keen.
A garden of roses, her soul's domain, where joy and sorrow share the reign.

So here I stand, a poet true, speaking words as morning dew.
To describe a love that's like a rose, with all its joy and all its woes.
For she, my love, is nature's child, at once so tender, at once so wild.
And I, in awe of all she be, love the rose and embrace the thorn's decree.

For in this garden, I have found, a love that's both safe and bound.
Bound by thorns, yet safe in bloom, in her presence, I am consumed.
And so I speak with heart so full, of a love that's both push and pull.
A rose with thorns my lover be, in her, life's sweetest poetry.