cycle of spring

a rose budded from its mother

can only morph into so many forms.

at its core,

its root,

a rose is still a rose

its destiny predetermined

and by any other name,

it smells just as sweet.


a rose is a symbol of love

placed gently in a vase on a first date

picked apart and strewn on the floor by the honeymoon.


a rose is an ephemeral beauty

worshipped in its prime

forgotten once it’s wilted.


a rose may be alive and well,

but once it’s abandoned for a new bud

it will crumble

dying as proof that its life was never in its own hands.


a rose is a flower

merely an object to observe when it’s bloomed

and to cast away when it’s old

leaving only the thorns behind

as a reminder of how unworthy it truly was.

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