"Three Worlds" by Chelsea E. Schetzle

He gave me a dozen red roses,
and professed his undying love.
But I knew.
He had such great passion, but little else.

He gave me a thorn less white rose,
said it paled in my divine beauty.
But I saw.
He was beyond hope, vain and unfeeling.

He gave me four dozen yellow roses,
said he give me all the gold in the world.
But I understood.
He was interested in his avarice, not our happiness.
 

He walked in one day, his hazel eyes sparkling,
and he concealed something behind his back.

I smiled at his mischievous grin,
and he brought forth three roses,
all covered with thorns and serrated leaves,
but each as beautiful as life its self.

“Red,” he said, “for passion and love.”
And he handed me the velveteen rose.

“White,” he said, “for purity and hope.”
And he handed me the spider silk rose.

“Yellow,” he said, “for happiness and prosperity.”
And he handed me the honey-gold rose.

He gave me three roses,
all divinely beautiful.

He gave me three roses,
I tended them well.

He gave me three roses,
they wilted away.

 He gave me three roses,
they are all but gone.

He gave me three roses,
three jewels, three reasons,

He gave me three roses,
himself and his heart.