Twigs of trees poke and prod

Even the roots are kind of odd

I walk the road, red as can be

How could this happen to me?

The roses sink just like my eyes

All but one always dies

I spot the one, perfect and clean

I hate the way it smells to me

I pick it then, poked by thorns

The rest all yell, I ignore their warns

Why oh why is it only you

Who seems so pure, so perfect, so true?