“A rose by any other name is just as sweet.”

Yellow bright and full of life for a friend,
Red a passion a burning inferno for a lover,
Pink the appreciation that can’t be expressed in words,
Orange the enthusiastic power boldly presented,
Worst of all,
White, A sacred color free of agony.

But what of the thorn?
It dwells beneath the beauty of a rose--
Deathly and sharp.

They vary in forms,
They vary in sizes,
The purpose, however, lies the same within all thorns--

To make you bleed at the touch of something so pure,
To make you cringe at the touch of something so beautiful,
Forcing the blood to flow,
And the colors to fade...

Now these thorns may be clipped,
They may be burned,
They may not even be visible,
But the cut remains
The cut, deeper than any wound we could see,
They cut into our very souls,
Filling our lives with significance,
A purpose that may become our undoing.

These wounds never show.
They never truly heal.
They never cause pain...

Until the last petal falls,
Or the weakest heart stops.