Beauty of Life

The painted rose is displayed there on the table Where peering eyes can gaze and therefore see Adorned in vase, transparent yet so beautiful It sits there waiting, but forever will not be So placed by hands that wanted for possession Yet, from the dirt, they stole the rose’s worth As scent and beauty dies, its imperfection Unless remained so planted within the earth For there, if left to die, its beauty comes back As stems beget the buds left there to thrive The beauty then comes back with new flourishing As if that one rose again was still alive The choice here then is simple, do we cut it? Or, do we let it grow for the entire world to see? The rose was not meant for solitary pleasure But rather meant for all of you and me.