The Color Of Rose Poem by Edwina Reizer

Oh if the world were all rosy colored,
not from the blood stains of men,
The picture presented would grace the world
with beauty and warmth again.

But fighting persists and the canvas we see
is one that's splattered and torn
beyond any mending or blending in sight
as the memory of what was, we mourn.

We see a facade before us and think
surely the scene will come back
where we can look at a rosy world,
one not so smoky and black.

But whom are we fooling?
Only ourselves.
The fools who are using the brush
don't have a vision of what beauty is.
The brains in their heads like mush.

The Michelangelos and DaVincis are weeping aloud
for the beauty they gave that should last.
But, alas the destroyers with blood on their hands
are in pursuit of a blast from the past.

If there are angels that can turn into men
and send these fools into space,
The color of rose would once again live
by saving the human race.