It is beauty in its ultimate form,
As is the season of spring,
When the crimson rose blooms into glory.
But like any beauty,
It is cast to folly,
For fear of the bitter bite of winter,
Builds in the heart as the seasons pass.
A wonderous world we truly have,
Yet inspite of all this greatness,
The great folly still works its deviousness,
For the rose seeks to forever bloom when it knows it cannot.
Is it this great fear that drives the rose to quest for immortality,
Or simply a foolish plunder,
To toy with the balance of heaven,
Whose wrath is like the summer storms?
Yet a foolish plunderer continues onwards,
Even as the seasons pass from young spring,
To experienced summer,
Then lastly to autumn with whispers of a cold winter in persuit.
On the dawn of winter,
The rose must go,
Wisking away the tired and withered rose,
To a unhappy burial beneath the snow.
Why did the rose throw away all the others seasons,
When in the spring it could have enjoyed the innoscence of youth,
In the summer season it would have grown to its full might,
Finally in the autumn, age and wisdom bestowed upon it?
All lost for a fruitless quest,
That bore no joy in its beginnings nor ending,
Still leading only from a beginning to a end,
With no filling middle to give it the strength of life and love.
Time for a rose is short by human comparison,
Yet we all face a spring and bitter winter,
But we to seek a forever spring,
Only to never enjoy all the others that happened.