Our hearts, we know,
Are but ever changing roses.
Cherish them,
Love them divine,
And protect them always.
Understand them not,
For their whole existence
Lies around their mysteries.
A rose,
It flourishes in light
And grows stronger
Until it becomes breathtaking,
Until your minds dare not even try
To grasp its wonder.
Evening comes,
The sun cast shadows
About the crimson blossom
And the thorns,
The thorns catch your eye
And the rose appears cold,
Solitary, and transformed…
Into a ghostly curiosity.
A silent fight to stand tall
Against the harsh, eerie winds
That whisper threats and false promises
In a voice so powerful
That the leaves shutter with fright.
As nighttime falls
And darkness grips its claws
About the once stable creature,
The thorns glisten
In the pale moonlight,
Warning the shadows
That they may not touch
The blossom so tender.
The wind laughs
And merely howls back an insult.
The thorns are desperate
And as they grow angered,
All have forgotten about the beauty once seen,
About the message the light had told,
As it danced on the petals before.
Suddenly the stronghold
Looks more like a child
Crying out into the night,
Only to hear an echo of its own voice.
The thorns, they fail,
The give up, surrender,
Intimidated by shadows and winds.
The leaves and blossom
Lose all hope of survival.
Then, then the roots take over,
Unsure of themselves,
They defend the child
Only because they refuse to see it whither.
They refuse to lay low
And see such a stronghold wear down.
All through the night
They hold tight,
Tight to the memories
Of an image full of awe
And bright with glory.
As they battle,
Beauty vs. darkness,
They are too focused
To see the sun’s glow,
Just barely emerging through the night.
Then, as the battle grows intense,
The sun peeks above the horizon
And a warm light floods the air
Sending the shadows far
And overcoming the bite of the cold wind.
As dawn sets in,
The thorns no longer glisten defensively,
But small drops of dew catch the morning light
For the leaves have stopped trembling
And hidden the thorns beneath.
The blossom opens slightly more,
Slightly brighter,
For the stronghold has survived,
Has grown and now stands in full glory,
As it weeps tears of thankfulness.
Age 15
Are but ever changing roses.
Cherish them,
Love them divine,
And protect them always.
Understand them not,
For their whole existence
Lies around their mysteries.
A rose,
It flourishes in light
And grows stronger
Until it becomes breathtaking,
Until your minds dare not even try
To grasp its wonder.
Evening comes,
The sun cast shadows
About the crimson blossom
And the thorns,
The thorns catch your eye
And the rose appears cold,
Solitary, and transformed…
Into a ghostly curiosity.
A silent fight to stand tall
Against the harsh, eerie winds
That whisper threats and false promises
In a voice so powerful
That the leaves shutter with fright.
As nighttime falls
And darkness grips its claws
About the once stable creature,
The thorns glisten
In the pale moonlight,
Warning the shadows
That they may not touch
The blossom so tender.
The wind laughs
And merely howls back an insult.
The thorns are desperate
And as they grow angered,
All have forgotten about the beauty once seen,
About the message the light had told,
As it danced on the petals before.
Suddenly the stronghold
Looks more like a child
Crying out into the night,
Only to hear an echo of its own voice.
The thorns, they fail,
The give up, surrender,
Intimidated by shadows and winds.
The leaves and blossom
Lose all hope of survival.
Then, then the roots take over,
Unsure of themselves,
They defend the child
Only because they refuse to see it whither.
They refuse to lay low
And see such a stronghold wear down.
All through the night
They hold tight,
Tight to the memories
Of an image full of awe
And bright with glory.
As they battle,
Beauty vs. darkness,
They are too focused
To see the sun’s glow,
Just barely emerging through the night.
Then, as the battle grows intense,
The sun peeks above the horizon
And a warm light floods the air
Sending the shadows far
And overcoming the bite of the cold wind.
As dawn sets in,
The thorns no longer glisten defensively,
But small drops of dew catch the morning light
For the leaves have stopped trembling
And hidden the thorns beneath.
The blossom opens slightly more,
Slightly brighter,
For the stronghold has survived,
Has grown and now stands in full glory,
As it weeps tears of thankfulness.
Age 15