Roses

The world is a rose,
it is quite beautiful,
but its thorns hurt.
The wind sings songs of gold,
that never seem to mold,
but behind each pretty lyric,
is a warning you should listen to.
Except, it’s not something you hold onto, 
So you let it pass,
like the ticking time.
The sea is deadly,
but you only listen to its melody.
Thunder calls out warnings,
that you don’t listen to until the mornings.