Vines and vines
Of red roses
Are carried by
Valkerie,
My angel of royalty,
Garbed in midnight blue,
With gold lace
Accentuating her skin and breasts.
For me, her love,
The dove who constantly
Rests on her right hand,
Her beauty holds me speechless,
But my heart breaks
Seeing the tears
In her eyes.
"Oh, my dear sweet Valkerie,
Why do you cry?" I whisper,
Wishing my love for her
Was enough to take away
All her pain.
She sighs, "These roses, they
Have thorns and
They prick my skin."
Such things they seem
Silly, petty and not worth of concern
In the grander scheme of things;
Oh yea, I understand
When one loves  --
Whether it be beauty, 
Knowledge or anything --
There's bound to be
Joy and pain.