Anonymous

Flaming red of our desires

brought by the birth of spring.

Percieved as gentle, calm, and fragile,

yet no good to us brings,

our fixation on its perfection

over mediocrity.

We place it high above ourselves,

to which the sky could never reach.

As we gaze in awe,

and strive to climb, strive to meet,

never do we realize the thorns that it does bare.

For even the pureness of a rose,

Can wilt and wither away.

Leaving us below the ground

entagled in the thorns,

and strangled by the air.