Oh, Thorny Rose

Bright Colours in a florist’s window,
Subtle hues varying betwixt them. Only
Faint differences breaking solidarity,
but which one to pick?

What about the Tallest?
There she sits among them,
grand and regal, postured
high above.

But alas, no vase
possessing of such height, and
silly does a short vase look,
barely maintaining eithers grace.

What about the shortest?
Small but affecting, she
compliments many, contrasting
and promoting difference.

But a vase too wide,
Profound, yet humble,
May eclipse her presence.
Dwarfing her beauty.

Perhaps there is no rose
to be found, befitting
of the circumstance.
Unique but adaptable.

Dreams begin to fade,
the florist window leaves.
Alone, I am walking home,
down the road, past trees.

Searching for adventure,
leaving the path behind,
I stumble through the woods,
searching for the other side.

Pain, short and fleeting,
a ripping quick before,
wetness ever slightly,
growing from my arm.

A rosebush laying hidden,
a single rose in my sight,
its naked thorns lay buried
deeply in my arm.

I found my rose, or maybe
she found me.
Her thorns got my attention,
they are what I need.

These thorns define you,
make you whole and right.
They may be hard to handle,
but it is well worth the fight.

Sharp, but tender, and
true to herself, Oh,
Thorny Rose, you are
beauty and strength.