It is uncanny, the un-sheltered rose. Her inner world remains unsheathed, and yet her exterior, while separate, remains unfit to be changed. That inner world is full of harshness and deceit, maintaining the rose’s strong inclination to defeat and defense. The sad thing: it was all her imaginings. The world outside was thorny, she had decided, and yet she was the sharpest knife of them all. She did not use this blade to distribute fruit.
What can I say for a rose that never knew beauty, when she may just have had a great deal of her own, if only she were to allow it to come home?