If naming is to ****, you remain a rose to me, or consciousness of Spring and thunderstorms with lightning strikes on green hills sporting tiny, yellow triangles on poles.
They pulsate in windy gusts of hail. The others would **** you out of the short grass, just to play on.
You have no value to them in their minute, diesel-powered, plastic cages.
Mowed shortly, rose, is the grass, so that their ***** can roll, unimpeded by friction with you-- your shape
and your form.
Your red, in the aftermath of a gray cloud is pernicious and sodry.

They don't want you, rose. They value you less than the sand they fall into. You are something outside of their game and they don't smell your odor at all. You could be the shortest tree, they'd chip away from you, regardless.
Why, rose, do you insist on planting yourself on their putridly pristine links?
Why not, rather, lie beside me, unraveled and plucked, on my bed? I get more pleasure from your dissection and thorny vulnerability.
I will cut your stem, yet feed you in a vase;
You'll grow before I take you apart.
Rose, we're all going to unravel-- some with fewer petals, some with fewer strokes.
But why be decimated by those who swing aimlessly the metal rod?
My lips, rose, and my tongue, don't play golf.
And aren't you glad?
When the thunder clashes and the rain comes, they can't play
but we can.