Ode to Roses

They are red as blood,

white as snow,

pink as candy,

and many more.

They have fresh, deep smell,

Sending shivers up your neck.

They contain delicate beauty;

so much meaning,

and love,

and magic;

they're almost tragic.

But how could they be,

as they're so soft,

careful,

and honest?

So sweet,

so keen to raise

their buds

up in the sky,

up into the blue,

daisy-like,

sea-like,

ocean-like heaven

of clouds.

How can they be blamed?

How can they be cut?

How can they be ripped out of the ground,

and separated from their many unique families,

and torn ruthlessly out of the soil that

you so carefully planted in your front garden,

or back-garden,

or anywhere else?

Sure to be living a long life,

full of beauty

and magic,

full of sorrow-less,

sin-less,

days,

they are.

Lest we forget them in years to come,

or let the gold planet never shine:

the sun.

And lest we keep singing,

this song to the flowers,

of many kind,

of different kind,

of the same use:

to make us happy,

to make us feel free,

to make us

feel

sin-less,

beyond

the degree.

This ode is for them,

to contain much emotion,

to make others think,

before they touch

what don't own.

This ode shall be for roses.