When a rose does fester in the soil that kept her sweet,
Lilies and hydrangea left unscathed,
Should the hand that caressed her petals soft
Be plucked from the wrist it is rooted upon?
Were the fingers that introduced the rose to the sun,
To blame for the torrent that gave too much?

All the rain knows to do is pour; Zeus taught his sons his rage
And his daughters to consume.
So the rose did what she was told,
She submerged herself in the downpour of fury
Absorbing all that would brighten her beauty,
For what is the purpose of a rose, if it is not choked by its own glory?