The Cowboy and the Rose

I see her with the corner of my eye

As her love hands her, her martini dry

I take a swig and blink to check if it’s real

My love whispers me to go easy on the rye

Maybe she saw me drinking but not my thirst

We act like two strangers turning into dust

She is at this gala, glowing, maybe Our love

 Has weathered, maybe she’s just on her first.

She is still as pretty, that she knows

Her beauty still deserves a song, a poem, a prose.

But what she doesn’t know when separated

to wither and die is the fate of the rose.

The shoot, ugly and stubbed will still linger on

Like the weary cowboy wandering for an aeon.

Before picking the flower, he didn’t know

That every rose has its thorn.

We are, like all who became one,

now two halves. The truth she’s trying to shun.

We broke up and she moved away and on

Both our found new loves, none one won.

You will die and I will roam dusty and worn

Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song