The Rose stands there all day and night.
Like it has nothing better to do, just waiting for something new
Its petals fly away with the wind
Like a kite flying high
The thorns are its protection
Like a mother to its baby
Its darkest chrisom;
Not like a stop sign, red light or red balloon
More like the red in the horizon as the sun slowly sinks
The animals are attracted
Like ants finding something sweet.
As the buds burst into another new wonder
Like a butterfly bursting from its cocoon
The rose shrivels and dies
Like smoke disappearing in a puff
The Rose then waits until it is time to spring again.
