A petal. A stem. A thorn,
Sits a red rose forlorn.
Its beauty not seen.
It droops its head in disgrace,
To cover up shame shown on its face.
Its beauty not seen.
Slowly the rose begins to wilt
No longer able to live with its guilt.
Its beauty not seen.
So here lies the rose,
Its path it chose,
Because its beauty was not seen.
If it chose to live,
What a gift it would give,
A red beauty in green.
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