The Perfect Pleasure

There’s a hint of darkness in every light,

A shadow somewhere within.

And happiness can blind you from your sight,

On a high wire, fragile and thin.

A trace of sorrow makes every sweet sour,

Contaminating every pleasure.

The snow will always choke every flower,

Because it hides among the summer’s treasure.

I find that I use tears as words too much,

Though it seems there’s no time to mourn.

I’ve realized that I’m just aching to touch,

The only rose without a thorn.

A flower so beautiful, and forever pure,

That once was a part of my garden.

But the winter had to come, so cold and sure,

To make this ground harden.

I miss the smiles she would bring me,

Like this springtime rose that was born.

The perfect pleasure that almost couldn’t be,

She was my only rose without a thorn.