The room was light Misty and still As if to foreshadow the sunrise I reached the dining table To find it adorned By a half empty jar with roses Of five, six, or seven The number escapes All I remember is the moment I laid eyes on the most beautiful thing She stood amidst the rest Her petals curled and creased Fragile as a bird with broken wings She couldn’t fly but she could sing She was unlike the others They surrounded her asymmetrically In equivalent harmony But she was different She had a story Of roots, of rain That paved the way To her present day Her wilted green stem stood singly Holding her withered wings Stitched together delicately Colors meshed into every shade Of reddish purplish gray The other roses were of complete red hue Each in its place For a moment I realized with dismay To some she may’ve been seemingly of no use In my eyes she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen She spoke to me Like she knew everything I held her in my hand Stroked her gently Till she unfolded every piece Petals on the ground Weathered and free Then I what I saw in her She was me