Why does the deepest part of me resemble the seed that grows inside the bud of a rose? My maker knew me & he knew what know one else knows. but with time i grew cold. Eyes opened, mind closed. In the land of the wicked, eyes hoping mine closed. so i keep eyes open but, sometimes mine doze. My rose couldn’t bloom in this land we call earth. So before you i stand …hurt. With thorns in my hand. Searching for man in this wicked land & found none. judging by the outcome i’m now questioning my makers plan. Still wondering why the deepest part of me resembles a seed that grows inside the bud of a rose.