The Rose
january 1994
Love is as the fragrant rose.
Its petals engulf the imagination
with its elegance plundering the heart.
They blossom with the advent of the sun,
And occlude as twilight approaches.
Its stem, shielded by the harsh thorns of reality.
The roots anchor, as the whole withstands
the adversity of mortality.
Where is the origin of creativity?
Who owns the palette of romanticism?
d. e. storey