I want to be
Like
Entangled particles,
You and me,
Wherever we are
I'll know how you feel.

When the rose, at dawn, unsealed its perfumed lips,  
A discourse, rich as velvet, from its petals slips.  
Each delicate bloom, kissed by the nascent sun,  
Revelled in beauty, where all things are undone.  

The breeze, a suitor with languid grace,  
Whispered, “Are you not perfection, clothed in this space?”  
But the rose, with a glance that was both proud and wise,  
Answered, “Perfection is naught but a lie in disguise."

The sun, all fire, with its golden sword,  
Declared, “In beauty alone, we must be adored.”  
But the rose, poised and regal in its bloom,  
Retorted, “It is in imperfection that we find room.”  

The dew, with a sparkle, like pearls on the sea,  
Asked, “Why, dear rose, this rapture in plea?”  
The rose, with a flourish and languorous sigh,  
Answered, “To live is to seek; to seek is to fly.”  

For power is born in the struggle to live,  
In beauty that dies, but has much to give.  
Excitement is born in existence’s call—  
In truth, we rise, and in truth, we fall.  

The rose knows, as all great souls must,  
That we are but moments—fleeting, yet just.  
And in every petal, with its silken grace,  
We glimpse the eternal in a mortal’s face.