Poor Flower

I once found a flower, whose beauty so marred, she was withered and broken and torn. At once when I grasped her, poor flower so scarred, I let go for my flesh was pierced deep by her thorn. My hand could not bear to endure holding on for the pain that poor flower had caused to my skin. Poor flower, so battered and bruised and now bloody, lay helplessly there to be trodden by men. I stood to the side to see all of this happen, poor flower, now fallen, was crushed in the dirt. Standing there watching, my hand still a throbbing, I knew the poor flower could care less for my hurt.