Of Ring and Rose

Of Ring and Rose

by A.J. Derro

 

 

 

The rose becomes the irony as I give it to you; it’s pretty, if not perfect, and pretty good must do, when everybody knows that solely rose is pure while true. So what am I in imperfection, else dishonest too? And every time we kiss, our lips tell more and more a lie, ’cause yours don’t say you love me, and mine won’t say goodbye.

 

Ring along with rose, even less a thing maintain, for what ever endured the more for marriage with a chain? And who so bold to hold fast to that lasting source of pain but I, and would I blame you for yourself, as you are sane? And every time we kiss, our lips tell more and more a lie, ’cause yours don’t say you love me, and mine won’t say goodbye.

 

Now what ne’er had a real beginning must find end; and make me, to me, less to you, so all your inj’ry mend, and leave alone a lover in love still, and name him friend. I’ll leave you and your choice alone with time in thought to spend. ’Cause even in our final kiss, your lips told mine a lie. They weren’t sure they weren’t in love. And they wouldn’t say goodbye.