A Rose; red, soft, smooth
Made so by the rain of love.
It glows, radiating with joy.
Never has beauty such as this been equalled;
Love has magnified the rose's elegance.
Indeed, some say love caused it.
Another rose, perhaps the same,
Withered, dry, in the sun,
It's petals falling one by one.
The waters of love are gone
Replaced by empty pain.
And the rose, once beautiful, is dying.
Will the rose yet live?
Will the love and rain return?
Or shall the rose come to it's end,
Never again to love, never again to live,
Only lying wilted in the sun,
Dying slowly, mourning its lost beauty.
Love may come,
But none know when,
And none know how;
Perhaps in the rain,
Perhaps in the sun.
Only the Maker can know the rose's future.
This is a poem I wrote in August of 1999, when I was 15 years old.