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.
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