The Rose

The rose garden is in full bloom today, a massive crimson bouquet. Some roses stand fragrant and bright, while others hide in the folds of night, and cower beneath the prevailing weeds, whom they have permitted to supersede their feeble lives, and have been deprived of something so good and so sweet. I turn disdainfully away, and admire a spray with a pretty scarlet rose. Oh, how perfectly it grows! With a long, long stem so thin and slender and jagged leaves so green and tender and many delicate crimson petals entangled in the stinging nettles that add to the blossom's charm and splendor. I cannot refrain I must obtain this rose, so awesome this beautiful blossom, yet it holds a secret so arcane one that I should definitely explain that when I reached out it pricked me, no doubt and I pulled back with a cry of pain. A drop of blood falls to th earth and all the bliss and joy and mirth has strangely disappeared. The dew drops now look like tears and the flowers, so forlorn as they turn their heads away and mourn. My mind then starts to expand and now I begin to understand that even the best rose is not without thorns.