She was a flower, Blossoming in each direction she stepped. A flower tucked in a rose woven sweater. She grew thorns to protect herself from those whom sought to misuse the essence of her beauty. The spread of her fragrant bud, spreading her petal in the midst of where she stood. Paying no never-mind to her roots, her petals withered. Applying water to everywhere except where it was needed most. They continued to pass, her sweater now dingy.
The prick of different fingers, she no longer swayed the same.
A season of orange and red leaves. Then came the winter. Hard but fair
Robbing her of all the beauty she possessed.
It was when her petals fell that she remembered what mattered most
When a rose turns old petals fall but the rose bud remains and its beauty and fragrance leaves a lasting impression in our minds Sure the beauty and fragrance of a rose lasts but briefly but the rose garden goes
Rose blossoms in filth Love for lust begins in bliss Thorn accompanies Rose uncertainty is part of Love Rose looks beautiful when fresh Lover looks attractive at first sight Rose withers over a time Love turns bitter after some time
The shepherd stood on the field, frail, He knew not what to do when and why, As the wrathful sun did steep down, The confused chap followed his humble sheep. Then one man neared and asked his name, He gasped