A Read Rose

I found myself a rose,
one to be read.
Made of thin paper,
on it, it said:

This rose is a future,
untouched by the earth,
misinterpreted by mankind
as something already unearth.

It’s leaves were perfect,
so perfect and empty.
The way they curved,
like they all agree.

        Hey you!
Said a man
who clearly saw me
         I like what you got,
    Mind if I see?

The look in his eye,
was daringly friendly.
He must be alright,
what monster could he be?

I let him see,
the rose I found,
hoping quietly,
it would not be passed around.

He took out a pen,
and etched on the rose,
scared me to see,
what this man would compose.

I snatched back my rose
and looked at the words,
of gossip and trends,
things to be heard.

My perfect rose,
was still alright,
just some words,
I guess they were right.

But another man came,
did not even ask,
just took that rose,
right from my grasp

he wrote away,
things, who would care?
But he seemed content,
as he stood there.

He wrote and wrote,
on and on,
I couldn’t believe
how much space was gone.

Fashion? Movies?
Government tax?
Who would read these things?
I couldn’t relax.

My rose was ruined,
and its leaves were dead,
they had no life at all,
just fading instead.

But the top of this rose,
it shone so colourful
it was the least touched,
but it was most influential.

The words of the men,
covered the words of the rose,
but it seemed only a few,
and a new sentence it composed:

This rose is a future
untouched by the earth,
misinterpreted by mankind
as something already unearth.


© 2010 The Still Air