Garden Rose

Pressed between two pages, in a book upon a shelf.
He seeks to hide your beauty, and keep it to himself.
He plucked you from your garden, from everything you knew.
He trimmed away the childhood friends, along whose sides you grew.
He showered you with kindness, and fertilized your hope...
before he banished you to darkness, with which you couldn't cope.

He knows that you will wither, he knows that you will die.
He knows that you cannot escape, because you'll never try.
He's warned you of the dangers, that in the world await
if ever you decide to roam, beyond his garden gate.

You had thorns to protect you, but he wore a glove.
He said you didn't need them, because you had his love.
He'll let you live in misery, then put you on display
He thinks that he's a potter, and you're a piece of clay.

You envy things that aren't alive, because they cannot feel.
Think maybe it's a nightmare, that none of it is real.
You try hard to remember, your lovely garden home
but he chips away your memories, so that you'll never roam.

He doesn't see your true worth, and he ignores your pain.
And even though you're not dead yet, you might as well be slain.