I saw a perfect little rose,
Lying on the ground,
Cut from its stem.
It was red,
It was green,
It was delicate,
It was perfect.
Yet it was cut from its stem.
Could you?
Could you overlook the obvious,
And appreciate the detail?
Could the rose ever be perfect in the eyes of you,
Or would cynicism magnify your in-satisfaction,
Until it overtakes your sight of fore?
Could you?
Would you?
