Pondering Mysteries

Of what may become of this rose

only fate will know.

Its life’s string can be just as frail as our own.

Somehow much more beautiful in its sun touched petals.

The perfect drop of water hanging off its bent red cloth,

asking for just a little bit more time on the velvety smooth surface.

The rose is nothing exceptionally unusual

that it would have men and women glorifying its presence

more than their gods.

The rose calls, and it is heard.

Tainted with pain, painted with chivalry.

The rose is what stands above the rest;

without knowing why.


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