Not for how they lithely grow
or fade, die, and fall apart as varied as the passing of each day,
nor for their sustenance
and the way they drink in and blossom,
yawning in the mid afternoon.
It is not their defenses,
for no rose thorns compare to the stone walls
of a person broken completely.
Nor is it for their colors--
they grow side by side in concert,
dancing in the same breeze
bowing and swaying,
roots grasping and mingling.
It is not their uniqueness,
for roses know better
than to focus on themselves.
Roses, like people, are cut down
sliced and pruned to fit the vase,
plucked and bound to be perfect-
sacrificed at the cost of another's love.
