A rose, red, cut, bled… stem within a vase
Taken aback thorns shout…. Amputation!
The rose arm, debased, now lives without face
I recoil from my crass permutation
Why is Beauty fair… often worshiped first?
Modest stands alone like a simple weed
Beauty doth bear a unique, deadly curse
Ugly lurks in shadow…a browbeat creed
Some say “silly”… bemoaning one flower
Do roses shed tears at the end of the day?
‘Twas I cut the rose… shear cutting power
Bud and stem severed? To that I say nay!
Crimson red roses or dull, yellowed weed
‘Tis Nature’s decree, they both come from seed
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