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Aphrodite-C.E.
Oh, queen of love,
your title is an irony
and your crown is
but a wreath of thorns,
for you are a defenseless rose
in a field of weeds and daisies;
standing tall but wilting for attention
eager to be proven you're the one;
the only; the validated;
because you were held
in the palms of their hands,
pliant and waning,
Stockholm force-fed,
bred by Robert's,
waning to be wanted, loved,
beautiful.
But roses only last so long
for lust and greed and toxic want are heavy.
You'll be yet again
torn up and ruined
while he's plucking daisy petals
counting loves and love-me-nots.
The most beautiful
flower in the garden
dies first.
