Of all the garden’s fair blossoms, I thought she
Stood apart as beauty’s blessed epitome`:
A rose whose fresh scent and color of deep pink
Would cause passers-by to stop, stare, and think.

Or so ran my thoughts and reasoned story
As I stood in the garden shadow of her glory.
I, whose visage and carriage drew nary a look,
who was frequently passed by in my garden nook.

Until I realized, at last, one summer’s day,
That my passers-by also ignored her on their way.
And the pain and rejection I owned so deeply
Was felt by this fair rose just as bitterly.

I learned that no matter how fair or common we as roses may be,
Our beauty fades, wilts and dies when we’re ignored completely.