The wind tears
fierce
A cruel hand
grasps the rose
It groans
piteously turned upon its stem
It is torn away
It is cast down
despised
No more in its
exalted place where it once was
The simple anger
of another
A written
message batters the soul
It writhes in
anguish gutted to the core
It is mutilated
It is put down,
rejected
No more in the
lovely place where once it was
The sun shines
slantwise warm
A kind hand
picks up the little rose
It lies there
languid aching in humiliation
It is returned
It is not the
same it is altered
Not hopeless but
emptied there where it once was
Turbulence and
needed shame
Innocence
agonizing in being misunderstood
But what gift
could ever profit more
If pain should
work more right than ease
And humiliation
an even greater good
Why cry my heart
be glad there is more room in you
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