There once remained a little rose,
That danced within the wind,
That stripped the petals of its clothes,
And washed it in it's sin.

The flower stood more naked,
With it's secret places bare.
But the plant was most mistaken,
if it felt the slightest scare.

To be bare is to be brave,
or so the wise men said,
In the words upon the page,
Left written by the dead.

That little rose is spinning,
as I twirl it in my hands.
I can feel what is beginning,
Though I cannot understand.

I pinned the rose upon my chest,
and walked among the throng,
It made me feel my very best,
though all the red was gone.

But petals are for luring,
all the hungry little bees,
And secret places are a pure thing,
and they belong to me.