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The Rose

There was a field.
You and I were planted here.
We grew roots in the same soil,
Basked in the same sun,
Fended off the same weeds.

Our leaves touched sparsely,
Flowing gently in the shared breeze.
Beneath the soil our roots intertwined
Until they clasped tightly for none to see,
But for us to feel, for we were one.

A fence in the field separated us.
To each side was one of us,
Both still growing higher toward our same sun.
Yet our leaves still touched;
Our roots still clung desperately.
We were still one.

We each began to blossom.
One watched the other from behind the fence.
Neither knew what was coming.
We were both afraid.
And yet, we were still one.

I saw what you became.
You were beautiful from my side of the fence.
You’d had nothing to fear,
For you were perfect absolutely.
I reached my leaves to yours, hugging your roots
For surely we would share perfection as well.

What I became was a nightmare.
As you bloomed into the reddest of roses,
I became the sickest of weeds.
You blanched and recoiled from me
And I was ashamed.

Roots and leaves shifted away.
You turned from me.
I let you go.
A weed and a rose could never be one.
I would not poison you in such a way.

Still I watched you, from my side of the fence.
You grew higher and more beautiful,
Forgetting me entirely.
And though what we had was still shared,
It brought me no comfort.
For I was but a weed,
And you were my rose.



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