I am the one they pass. Some notice my beauty, most walk on by. Those who see, smile and move along, never brave enough to claim me as their own. They move to the beauty that is more well known. Here I sit and wait to be picked. But not by mere passers-by. One must see how I stand out, and how complex is truly me. Not quick to jump, not so soon conclusions to come. I must be seen and understood before deemed by beauty. My thorns leap out at the sight of the quick and the lust. I wait as you pass, somehow seeing me and choosing the daisy.

Just as this patient rose wilts.