A rose with petals wilted by the cold
Or spoiled by mold or blight, is still a rose.
Your spirit knows without it being told
That you are gold; your being is a rose.
Though outward charm will fade away,
Your worth always will be the same.
There is no shame in worn and grey;
Your heart can say your name.
And, in the beauty of your mind,
Now look behind the outward show,
For there you glow; and you will find
You were designed to grow.
A rose with petals burnt by fire’s heat
Will still smell sweet though withered, wilted, charred
I may be scarred, but nothing can defeat
My will, my grit — I’m soft, but I die hard.
A rose that falls and sinks into the loam
Is going home, is nourishing the seeds;
And though I bleed, the flowers I have sown,
I’ll never know how many souls I’ve freed.
