How could such beauty?
Grow amid such pain,
And prosper as if the branches,
Did not contribute in their fame.
The answer must be jealousy,
Perhaps the vines feel they are scorned,
So to answer the flower's beauty,
It surrounds the rose with thorns.
Unnoticed are the branches,
For the rose is so arrayed,
It commands all the attention,
From each one who comes their way.
And when the rose fades in its season,
Even then no one cares's,
That the branches are still living,
It's as though, they are not there.
by william mae