Fulcrum of a Rose

Where lies the fulcrum of a rose’s grace, That subtle scent which stirs the breathless air? Not in the bloom alone, nor velvet face, But in the stillness trembling hidden there. Between the thorn and bloom, a silence clings, A control pad where sweetness takes its flight— Not born of petals, stem, or crimson rings, But shaped by balance born of dark and light. So search within: your soul, like gardens, grows. Its fragrance, too, must rise from some still core— Not from the noise, but deep where no one knows, Where joy and ache in equal weight implore. The rose reveals what inward truth bestows: The heart finds voice where no one outward shows.