The Rose

Ah, the rose. It stands tall and proud, Like a soldier. Looking regal in an audience or alone. Exudes independence. Is lusty. Yet at the same time fragile, Wanting to be handled gently. The smell is sweet, heady to the senses. Could one use it as a paraphrase to living? An instance of pleasure and luxury, Of chasing the fulfillment of self? A person lost in his or her own focus. An avoidance of reasoning. Beware of how you grasp it. If your hold is too tight on its throat, It will prick you, deep in your finger. Leaving its mark. Red blood as true as it’s color. A reminder. That a rose is different by nature, And the delusion a choice made by your mind.