The Rose

How easy it is to rub

Against eternity,

To fall back bruised.


A rose’s sides,

Tarnished by



Close encounter with

The unseen,

Love unknown to itself.


Beauty unbeknownst to

Its maker,

Scraped away by winter’s



Smoked away in summer,

Bent below its full potential.


A spring to perk up its


Autumn to bed the petals.


A soft voice to caress,

The heavy drone to blow down.


Beneath its center,

A world of wakefulness,

The above universe

Swirling into regret.


A farmer to tend its


A city man to trample

Its petals.


In the light of day,

Risen to a great new height,

Basked in the glory of God

Once more.