a rose

A flower to some but a deeper symbol to others.
It sways in the fleids
the flower...
the rose...
its beat to a rhytme of its own.
The dew drops on the delicate petals
drop as if the rose its self is crying
The color...
blood red is radiant until another day.
When it is pick for our selfish reasons.
when plucked from its place it comfort us.
letting us know there is still beauty
left in this cruel,unforgiving world
we call home.....