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The dark wood of a table will
reflect,
Rose petals as they fall on to it, direct.
How they stand there lightly, a jewel.
The strength they seem to have, all firm, full.
Do we know? Yes we do.
This just isn't true.
In fact, the fragile character of their charm,
Cannot and will not protect them from harm.
The heat of our fingers alone,
Break these tender veins not of stone.
Shattered they will be with no change
In their character or range.
For they are just as they are.
How can they be reaching for visions far,
When the petal is removed from the rose,
We ask, "How is it your garden grows?"
For not matter should we live to be olden,
There will be those who are mentors golden.
Pray we are able to be graced with their love,
As steady and there as parents hand of glove.
I hate not this modern ideology so vain,
Instead feel sorrow for the fane.
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