For most of us, the beauty of the rose lies in it's perfection.
In it's submission.
No thorns to mar it's beauty with droplets of our blood. A dewy, blood red, blooming rose.
A rose that lives.
Little do we realise that the beauty of the rose lies in it's thorn.
The thorn that adds character to the rose.
The thorn that guards the rose from all but the most persistent of lovers.
Testing each lover with it's many jabs, drawing forth blood and pain.
Chasing all but the most determined away.
The rose gives true beauty when it submits.
When it gives up it's thorn and blooms for the lover that sought it.
When it envelopes its lover with it's fragrant scent, a blushing blooming beauty.
There's beauty in a withered rose.
For a rose that submits embraces death, dying a little each day, petal by petal.
Loosing its scent, unable to envelope it's lover in fragrance.
Sacrificing its life and beauty to the hand that plucked it.