I think of you in the dark of night,
and in the fresh light of morn,
somewhere in the mist, our souls
parted ways, and we were born.
Rose petals climb the trusses
a soft texture on the walls,
no free will sends those roses high,
primordial growth, from the first light of time.
Alas, if love is like a rose,
it surely knows which way to grow,
yet trees and clouds obscure the way,
and adjacent brambles snare and sway.
One a morning fair, I passed the rose
and sang a sweet old tune,
and the sun is bright and the sky as blue
than when our love was in full bloom.