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Poetry: A Rose of the Field
A Rose of the Field A rose by any other name,Would posses thorns which still cause pain, It still would own its temptress petals, Be they angels or be they devils, Many think it is love, some fear it in hate, Few know its motives, always a blank slate, The root of the thing, is the most innocent part, It supplies its form with life, even its own damned heart, And in this small sin, it ruins itself, Never to be loved, despite its beauty upheld, It has been tenant world over, But commits its worst crimes among the grasses and clovers, There it stands, in the field, all alone, Hiding hopes, hiding fears, all unknown, Yet when one receives it, One would never believe it, They use only their whims, not heeding it’s warning They use it for joy, or even for mourning, It seems such a shame, as though a hazardous game, If one knew of its identity, they would be stricken with shame, To give such a gift, to offer such a token, Would seem so uncouth, it is best left unspoken. |
