Roses Four

A simple poem. Four girls I'm attracted to and not knowing which I like most.

Several roses of precision four,
By a scent of a longing sense,
What gardener clips and which he saves more?
A decision of which an incision per wit
Can chance the stem of romance.
Hence when his hands do prick a twig by one, what for?
If he resents reluctance in the flower's intent,
Perhaps his picking was the innocence forged.
But could a rose so lovely and to come so sweetly,
Spur from such a darkly tragic chore?
When all do lovelies, grow so pretty
All meant for the roses four.
A little lent in the motion and lost in commotion
Seldom he'll grow more.