She sits in roses, giving her hands to their pedals.
Pain for the pleasure she supposes, although she's awarded no medals.
Thorns are a pricking, the already vulnerable shell.
Her dreams keep her sailing, beyond the point from which she fell.
As a rose pricks it handler, her handlers seem to only prick her heart.
Gardeners in general are much more gentler, hers are handsome but have begun to rot.
Delicate as a rose pedal, she sees her frailty.
Rising from this lovely hell, leaving the roses for some better realty.
The estate in which she resides, is a place vacant of confusion.
Here there are no handlers, besides she'd rather have truth than illusion.
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