A rose is a gift of beauty, a gift of joy to display.
A rose is a gift of beauty, a gift of joy to display. such beautiful roses, all roses of yesterday. Who tends to the flowers, ones that do not bloom? Unadorned hidden roses - like a fragile human tomb. A perfect bud growing there - alive, yet unseen. Hidden behind a weed, praying to be redeemed. Unwatered by love - suppressed by fate - strewn in untended ground - choked by hate. A flower spreads hope; motivates our lives. Except the one tossed about, it dies. Dead is the bud; dead is the bloom; the flower, the rose - they died. Shattered, broken, all alone, inside a tomb they cried. Dead is the bud; dead is the bloom; the mind, the soul - they died. No help came, no one tried. brg 1/79