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The Rose

The sweet summer rose
Glistened with cold dew
Such effortless beauty, such graceful pose,
this rose, loved by all,
For it is no secret that,
only roses are the bell of the ball

But spare a thought for those thorns,
those who are forced beneath beauty's shadow
those who are not adorned with pretty petals,
those who have life hard,
those who work for every yard
those who beleive in humility,
loyalty, decency and humanity
those whose eyes can no longer cry
those whose lips no longer ask why.
Spare a thought for those grateful beings
who love, cherish and value every aspect of life,
who don't winge because they are plagued with strife,
but bite their lip and soldier on...

For when the winds of time
blow those pretty petals away,
that rose becomes just as bleak as clay,
and that thorn looks to the sun, as if to say,
thank you, for letting me live to see another day.

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