Supported by hapless thorns,
In a hue contrastingly signifying stability,
Flapping its wings in excitement,
Waiting to mature in a hope to see the world,
Like a child who cuddles for protection.
Yet surrounded by its foes,
Who wait for its destruction,
Who garnish it for expression,
In a selfish attempt to celebrate adulation.
Just when it feels happy about its aesthetic value,
It regrets,it hasn’t got a deserving due,
It’s a rose after all,
Which sadly doesn’t have a say in its final call.