The Rose I Plucked From The Eternal Fire Poem by Mark Heathcote

Let us talk of three-day wedding feasts
Bands of gold, that'll keep out the cold.
So, before we met, isn't predeceased
By yet another life had together never told.

Let this fiction fantasy at once transpire
For me, I myself wouldn't be or she herself
If, she never lived to be my sweetbriar
The rose I plucked from the fire, for myself.

Let our fingers meet then & build a spire
Imagine we can be as bride & groom.
From whence our; children can aspire
Health & wealth we can't presume.