The Rose That Grew From Concrete

Many a mind hurries past the gripping splendour in search of beauty, not to last, while continuing in rejection of grandeur. I look as the moments pass at the wounded walkway. The sand flows through the hourglass and time conforms to seconds and seconds to day. There, in the heart of pain, at the crack of dawn grows through the mundane, purity, life’s mystery in an image drawn Red bursts open in colours array but expectation it defied as time had not intended bloom ‘till the following day and still nature’s scarlet tears are cried. Dusk was meant to encompass the brooding gem in the snows but the bud unfolded in its stubbornness and yet not its pedals froze. I suppose the dark of night and the bitterness of day could not smite what would have its own way. The bud grew beautifully in strength and blossomed in wisdom, knowledgeable in great length, yet its leaves forbade a future grim. Somehow it lacked endurance and what blind humanity refused to meet became the trampling of our innocence: the rose that grew from concrete.