Rose

Why did the gardener plant the rose?
Did it matter if the rose knew not?
For it wasn’t about the garden she worried,
in her own existence did she glow.

She smiled to innocent songs of the birds.
She played with the soft silky butterflies.
She danced with leaves that adorned her
and comforted the sulking thorns.

An existence that grew in self indulgence
she painted her world with red.
Beautiful and pleasant with cheerful playfulness
from the love and pride for one's self.

Why then did the wind choose otherwise?
Why then he called for her destruction?
One by one why did he wither away
her very delicate, very soft petals?

What sadistic pleasure did he get by destroying
the very existence of an innocent love?
What sinful pleasures did he enjoy by peeling
a lively being of her ever glowing skin?

And when he completely annihilated her
did he expect the fragrance to fade?
Or was he completely stupefied
as he watched the rosebud
bloom to life again?

Did he stare in disbelief
at his power rendered frivolous?
While the rosebud laughed and sang
a silent challenge -
"Come On, destroy me again".