An Orchid Bloom
The rose can bloom the deepest of red
With petals the color of burgandy wine,
But in it's prime, It's petal's will shed
While the orchid's a plume of exotic divine.
The rose with it's thorns
Is widely adorned,
And can wound the beholder
While in ardant bliss.
But the orchids without scorn,
And with it's corrolla's can form
The alluring want of a tempress' kiss
The rose recoils
At the touch of night
Without regards to the stars and moon.
But the orchid's alive
With nocturnal delight
And can alter emotions
With a trace of perfume.
The rose can thrive
In the most constant of climes
to produce a bouquet
with petals of gloss.
And all throughout time
The rose has been
The most favorite of rhyme,
The orchid remains enchating
And Eden's beloved loss.
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