The rose,
Waiting.
Waiting to bloom,
To blossom in the hour,
The hour of depression,
In this black and white world.

For who are we?
To be graced with its presence,
To behold perfection,
When we seek to destroy;
To manipulate and crush each other
For the sole reason of none.

The rose,
Slowly unraveling,
Takes its first breath,
Of hate and death.
Seeing its first sight,
Of darkness and loneliness.
Even when surrounded by many
In the brightest of hours.

The true gift,
Is that of true beauty.
So why is beauty suffering,
In the case of war,
Of idiosyncrasies and vendettas.
Let what is great flood your heart,
And what is beautiful, become one with it.
For that is the meaning of life,
To be great
Just as the rose.