Wild rose

She is my wild rose,
Crimson like passion,
Beautiful beyond compare,
An angel in all but name,
The kind that stands out effortlessly,
Crimson like rage.

I am tangled in her thorns,
But also her petals,
Crimson like warmth,
Soothing and scathing in equal measure,
Loving and wrathful in duality,
Crimson like blood.

Her lips can wound,
They open burning scars,
But they can heal those same scars,
As if by some magic,
Vibrant and soothing,
Radiant and humbling.

She caresses my weary and cracked lips,
While weathering a tempest,
Standing tall like a bastion,
But holding me like a seraph,
Wise and dependable,
Crimson like love.

I love her,
She is my wild rose.