I found myself gazing upon
A rose of a pearlescent beauty,
thinking why such a lifeless thing
Should be prettier than me?
I happily set upon, for I felt it was my due,
The rose who shined upon the garden,
and ripped it from the root.
In my hand it still shone brightly,
so I threw it on the grass
and kicked it with my boot.
Triumphantly, I gazed upon it,
Its petals strewn about,
but upon closer inspection
It still looked more beautiful than me.
I gathered up the petals, every thorn
and twisted leaf, and took it to the furnace
because how can an ashen flower
still be prettier than me?
