The Red of the Rose

One wonders where the rose gets its red, red hue;
It’s like nothing else upon this rainbow’d earth
Of colors so bright. And yet the others, the others
Who dare to shine red or pink are faded and muted
‘Gainst the light of Venus bloom. They come
About their red naturally, I think, and their hue is all
Their own. But the rose, the deep red rose, is a thief of
Color and life. It grabs and grasps and steals its red,
And does not make its own. It sets a trap, it drags us in, and
Strikes us at the end; reaching out with sharpened spikes
To suck blood from within. We pay the price for its beauty,
For its color and its scent; we pay with our own lives.
And lest the world be dark and gray, without the red, red rose,
We sacrifice ourselves upon the alter of its everlasting pulchritude.