A rose is red, but is a flower dead,
I'd rather leave it on the plant.
I know you're attracted to an image,
You like this smile in a slant.
I am an image, and you drew it too,
Maybe I'm not quite as permanent.
My moods are bad, I get mad,
My patience in life all spent.
What are the rainbows of your life,
Made from which figment or fib?
What drives the ink so passionate,
That it erodes the fountain nib?
Maybe when you become like me,
An image just like this.
We might be able to hold hands,
And maybe even kiss.
