The Rose

A poem about a rose

Its petals plucked, ripped and torn
The fallen rose now shamed in form.
The faceless weeds who bowed with grace,
Look up to see its purloined face.

A weary path has branched around
To see the queen without her crown.
The morning came and left its dew
And shed its light upon so few.

So many times we’ve walked this road
Within a crowd sometimes alone
But never did we see such sights
Too dark to see in busy lights.

Too soon have our child eyes grown
That blinds us to the sights unknown