The Prose is Like a Rose
It begins as a small bud on the bush
Tightly enveloped in the green leaves of thought
The tips of what to come barely exposed
Attached to a bush of knowledge and experience it is slowly nourished
As the waters of thought course through the stem
With the sunrays of imagination basking it with life
The tight bud begins to unfold.
Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly it begins to mature
First a blossoming young flower
Opening itself for the world to see
The colors of words showing in its petals
The bright green leaves of ideas in its bud
It explodes into the flower it was meant to be
Its fragrance of emotions in the petals say to the world, look at me
Its wide open petals for the whole world to see
It speaks of beauty and charm of imagination gone wild
Its glory exposed to all that would look
But soon it loses its shimmer and shine
As the bush it is on can no longer sustain its magnificence
As the color fades and the petals drop and its heavy bud droops
Will anyone appreciate the flower it was once was.
It withers and dies on the bush of the mind
Having once been alive for all to appreciate the glory it brought
Yes the prose is like a rose as a new bud appears…….