Rose

Rose

I never promised you a rose garden,
I never promised you there’d be no thorns,
othing to prick and provoke you in this life.
Your life is not a perfect rose,
for every flower has its imperfections,
and you are no exception.
The slight bend in your stem,
brown spots on your petals,
the curling of your fading leaves.
And like all flowers you are not immortal.
You, too, will succumb to the wilting,
your petals dropping, one by one
Tto a ground already strewn
with the remnants of other flowers,
those who went long before you.
Just like them, your leaves will wither,
your stem turn brown.
But as you go, floating away,
with each discarded petal,
so go the thorns.