Sisyphus' Rose

What is a seed? If not a flower.
What is a flower? Had it been not a seed.
Soil rich with wisdom, a feast for the young,
A sweet dew of lessons on naive eyes is hung.

In hours of dusk in silence bound,
Dense petals close eyes, "My bud, sleep sound."
When violently falls the rain of the world,
Green shields surround her blossom furled.

In light you see grown roots have sprung,
Like powerful arms, though once so young.
A scarlet blossom now for a face,
Reaching but skyward with courageous grace.

In greedy pursuit, of the natural gift,
Strong hands reached forth; lustful and swift.
A wish to bless their perfect home,
With flowers by sweet graces known.

But born upon this beauty's side,
A sight no leaf could fully hide.
One touch could draw the blood of whom,
Had heard of her perfect perfume.

Naiive no longer to the scorn,
exposed was now her painful thorn.
One drop was all it took that day,
A blossom simply thrown away.

She cannot fight this natural curse,
Thus she mulls this pointed verse.
Your print upon her bosom lay,
Her tears fall in cursed dismay.

She prays that in her future waits,
Her humble glory, 'fore heaven's gates.
To warm even the heart of one,
Despite her thorn, her duty done.

In spreading love about a room,
A crystal vase will be her tomb.
Lament not on your cruel rejection,
Heaven hails a day's perfection.

Her seed was but a lesson cast,
On bigotry she would outlast:
Desire not a scarlet rose,
If her thorns judgment expose.