I�m a poet, sometimes in prose
My life resembles a bush of a rose
The flower a fleeting sentiment
Only the thorns can be permanent
It�s far too easy to kill or die,
When the bee believes the spider�s lie
Caught in her web I philosophize
As my life flashes before my eyes
Picking the beauty, pricked by a thorn
One has to live with society�s scorn
Weeds strangle the weaker roots
Young bushes crunch under soldiers� boots
Occasionally mingling with others� lives
Sometimes I lose a rose to a lover�s knives
We must concentrate on the remaining rose
Let its sweet perfume waft up to your nose
An obscure hearth, the flames lick higher
I�m afraid I�ll be consumed by the fire
My petals transient, but memories stay
And another bud will bloom on a later day