I walk naked among the thorns of life
waiting to breathe in a sweetened spice
Scratched and bruised I overcame,
and remained patient just the same.
A wary glimpse, and I remember,
The moment felt in mid September
The white flecked red rose so purely born
cannot beguile or more adorn
Ah sweet smell, my sense allows
a perfumed mist to thus arouse
a quick moment, an abductee
of jealous fading reverie.
I wonder if, do you suppose,
That life is like the white flecked rose?
Copyright © Allan Koven