Why is the rose so beautiful?
In life and death.
It glistens, frosted by the morning tears
that gently fall away,
to die?
Or do they help start life
down deep in the roots of thought.
Will the petals fall
or be stolen by a breath
as rich in life, as in death?
Lays down like a lover.
Soft and slow or,
like a caged demon
Ripping it self from life,
in that wind that howls
from nights ferral jaws.
Death holds beauty
more elegant then to be told in life.
Seems alive, until it is wilting.
Falsely playing with thine eye.
Oh, beauty thrives only to fade.
On the precious petals
of a rose in bloom.
Ever masking its tremulous thorns,
reddened by its own blood.
Why is the rose so beautiful?