A child strutted down a gray gravel lane
That laid between a rose garden fenced frame
The young boy ran his fingers thru the brush
Filling the air with a strong floral musk
When suddenly, he retracted his hand with a wince
When it snagged some thorns on the rose garden fence
He cried aloud as his fingers ran red
The kind of yelp his mother did dread
So she descended from the house which they lived
To find her young son waist-deep in roses
She pucked him from the garden with care
& inquired in the first place, why he was in there
He replied to his mother, he wanted it dead
To **** the rose that had caused him to bled
She cleared her throat, smiled, then said,
“My dearest child, do not be misled. Killing the rose won’t cure your bloodshed.”
This made the boy cry even harder it seemed
He already killed the rose in a vengeful fury
His mother smoothed the tears from his cheeks
Cleared her throat & again began to speak,
“It’s ok to feel bad. It’s all apart of life. After all, what is happiness if not in contrast to strife?”