What is so beautiful..
about The Rose?
That makes him
stuff of poetry..
ineffable by means
of merely prose?

Might it be his
crimson petals?
Or his prickly thorns?
Or is it the fragrance
that surrounds him..
as an aura of
his inner beauty..
following him
anywhere he goes?

The Rose’s beauty..
isn’t just for anybody
to grasp on to
and to hold..
So many tried
to grasp him
by the stem..
and were left injured
by his thorns..
the thorns
that never meant
to make the holder
bleed..

So often pain is our
sternest teacher
of discernment..
over who we are
and who we aren’t
meant to hold,
indeed..