I closed my eyes and I saw one of the most sadistic things I had ever seen.
A rosebud in a wrought iron cage.
When it was ready to bloom, it would not be allowed to.
If its petals were to spread beyond the boundary of the bars, it would be forced to contort itself, to rip through its own design and reluctantly embrace the cage in which it was born.
Would anyone acknowledge its strength in lieu of its deformed beauty?