The rose was just sitting there,
all jagged and worn.
Nobody has touched it,
it was so forlorn.
But there was something about it,
so beautiful and helpless,
a beauty that you can hardly help to pass it by.
When you looked upon it,
you could see that beauty was there for years,
that’s why no-one would dare pick it.
It would sit there from January to December,
when people would light the wick of a candle and put them around it.
It was a beauty you could not explain,
so soft, so fresh, yet so plain.
Now there is a glowing feeling,
where the rose used to be.
But up in the loft of everyone’s heart,
they can still remember it’s beauty,
and keep it’s fire going.
(Archived poetry from 2003)