Rose

So cruel, the hand that plucked
the fair rosebud leaving it potential
forever and ever more.
A symbol in a vase on an obscure table
where no eyes will fall, naturally
upon it or understand.

So very cruel that hand,
but the hand has no thought,
The nails bear no polish (paint sounds like point)
Beauty seeks no competition.
So untimely the bud will never be a rose
but it has the thorns
and took the scorns
and died for no appearant reason.

Then after death, the bloom soon fades,
and back to dust it all returns. never
becoming. Ever seed umtil it comes
again. maybe not in this life. Maybe
not the next. When then, when then will
it be the thing it now pretends?