How beautiful is the rose that shows it's colour to those that pass?
Struck with hues of death, yet a symbol of love and hope?
How brave is the rose that faces the cold night,
When the winds seeks to strip it's pride, deface it of its careful delicacy that was bestowed upon it.
And when the cruel bite of winter rips away the mysticism that once veiled such promise.
What of that beautiful, brave rose is left but the harsh ugly callous beneath?
How everlasting was that beauty or true thy love?
When pretty disguises are plucked one by one to show what truly lies beneath those ****** petals of fake promise.
How beautiful is the rose that has nothing left to show?
How beautiful is the rose once it has run its course?
How beautiful is the rose that weathers life's trials and still stands when the sun touches the remains of a once splendid thing?
How beautiful is the callous that was stronger than the petals.