Roses.

A rose? you ask.
A rose indeed.
A rose? you ask.
A rose, indeed.

What kind of rose may it be? you ask.
The rose we give in love,
or the rose we give in vain?
The rose we give in affection,
or the one we do in despite?
The rose we give in wish,
or the rose we give in secret?

Or, does it have a meaning at all?
might it be the rose we find,
asking, waiting to be given its meaning to exist?
Ah! The last kin it is, is it?
Then meaning, we shall give!

Say, rose, what would you like to be?
The symbol or love? Beauty? Respect? Admiration? Desire?
Even better, a Death wish?
What wonderful choices we have!
And it's all in the color.




Meaning, meaning, meaning.
We must all have a meaning to be.
We mustn't exist without one, never!
Instead, we shall lose our minds trying to find it.

But why must there be a rose? You cry.
I smile.
A smile that doesn't have a meaning;
it isn't a coy smile with a reason.
Perhaps it isn't a smile at all, since it's too busy looking for a reason to exist.


The prettiest part of a rose are its thorns, you see.
It just is, no need for a reason.
Yet I love you, with no reason.
Might that not be love at all, then?

So it isn't. No such thing as love.
Allow me, to hand you this rose.