How does a rose feel
When its part of a corsage
surrounded by many beautiful flowers?
Does it feel a part of something pretty?
Or is it confused of its own identity?
The rose has gained a lot of fame
Been given a role in many a tale
Its been the pride
of the poet
of the bride
Its been symbolized for love
for passion
for pain
Its been painted in the spring
and washed in the rain
Does it feel alone
and crushed when shown
against orchids and gerberas
and colours unknown?
Does it feel like the world
has turned a blind eye
To its beauty and story
No truth and only lie?
Does it feel betrayed
by the poet's love,
The romantic's kiss,
And the friend's dove?
Or does it become a more radiant red
As if wounded by its thorn and bled.
Does it hold its own and shine with pride
For being a rose with a flower on each side?
Does it allow itself to blend in with the others
And create magic beyond its solitary powers?
Does it smile at beng a part of the dream
And yet hold its own when placed with the cream?
With the best of the colours and textures around
It doesn't droop and fall to the ground
Does it know that even when its surrounded by the best
It might be picked up to put a heart at rest?
That even when picked from this crowd of colour
Its red will shine with passion and valour.
A rose can hold it own when cast
On a coffin, on a coat
In a bouquet, in a vase,
In the garland that's put on the lovely bride
In the pages of a poet looking for his pride
A rose means so much
no matter where it goes
Nothing's more red, than the red,
of a pure bred rose.
