The rose bush stood gracefully in the open,
No pattern to the flower's arrangement like the discordant writing of a broken soul,
The flowers red and all at different points of blooming, different stages in their lives.
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Then stood a white lily close by,
It looked up to the bush and almost cried,
It didn't bother speaking up in rhyme,
The thought of it was just a waste of time.
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Then the bush looked down too see,
What a little flower was underneath,
Oh small pathetic plant, my beauty, style and ways are beyond you,
So small and fragile,
I shall take control and make you as majestic as me.
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The thorns wrapped around the lily,
It made it feel worthless with the things it said,
Forcing its ways onto the fragile plant,
It was wilting as it all happened,
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Oh the poor flower look at it,
So weak, So fragile,
That now it's dead.