Who Mourns the Rose

by William Mae   May 30, 2018


Why does a rose of beauty rare,
Spring forth to glorious birth,
And for a season short at best,
Fall back into the earth.

It came to give to love to live,
Then in a day to die,
We mourn the sinners plight of choice,
For the rose no one cries.

Is innocence so cheap a gift,
And just as cheaply spared,
By a world thats blind to truth,
And so know one cares.

The world to often stops to mourn
When the wicked falls in death, 
But seemly it can’t even pause,
When a rose is lain to rest. 

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Latest Comments

  • 3 months ago

    by Tony

    Judge's Comment

    There is a beautiful extended metaphor throughout this piece. I paused to consider both the literal and figurative meanings to this poem. On the one hand I have thrown away countless wilted roses throughout the years without second thought. I spared more emotion when my phone died than when the delicate carnation wilted slowly throughout the week.

    Is it more or less tragic that the roses died prematurely solely because they were chosen for their beauty only to be discarded when they were no longer beautiful?

    As for the figurative meaning... I feel this poem speaks to our taking for granted the beautiful things in life and not fully appreciating them when they are gone.

    This poem was deep and thoughtful with a heartfelt message behind it. Well done Will.

  • 4 months ago

    by Milly Hayward

    Breath taking piece full of beautiful visuals an excellent read definitely a nomination best wishes Milly x

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