A weed of a Rose is all it’s become
to the gardeners who paint its petals in shame.
But it’s not the soil or deprivation of sun
that’s causing their flower to wither away.

See, it longs to be perfect, like the silks on the shelf
free from its fate in the filth of the dirt
so much it becomes the demise of itself
thorn after thorn contemplating its worth.

It knows it’s nothing but a rose-colored weed
crumbling to ashes for the winds to blow
searching and grappling for a reason to breathe
from the dismal comfort of the truth it knows:

?if she slit her roots, there are few who would mourn;
?nothing’s to miss of a Rose with twenty-four thorns.