By A. E. Palthaser Reuben
Oh no! why are you lying down with the dust?
What's the world coming to?
Said, I, to the fallen rose with thorns.
What fate have you forged?
That you are plucked
And now ghastly shorns.
Do your quills pierce like a knife
or has your fading light made you fragile, to being cast aside?
Then the fallen petals faintly sighs,
I was plucked from my stem,
A gift to someone's hand.
But no one tended to my roots
Or gave me water to stand.
I withered, I faded , and being isolated,
For I was LIKED, not LOVED
A Distinction so finely divided.
To like is to possess, to pluck and to give away,
Howbeit to love is to nurture, to cherish each passing day.
I was a rose, a symbol of love
Yet I was love in vain,
For in the end, my petals gently
touch was but a summer rain.
I chased my dreams in all of my ups and down,
But in the end I ended lying on the ground.
[There is a question arose... Is this really just about a rose?]