"The Thorn!"

A genre crept from within the common fields to
a earth's recognition. I observed the metamorphosis
of life's stacked paradox in sequential flows, for the
genesis of its sunshine was not the influence to universal
standardization. But a kind of paradise that I applaud, I
saw a single unadorned petal in youth with thorns in
everglow and devilish curves. It lacked the rough
edges of time, environmental factors, others input,
and the revocation of monies' flows to compete in
garden of established plants.

Self-glow meant nothing, the pride of being among
the orchids waters not its prominence but adds to its
aesthetic appeal. Those beginning, the formation of buds
is similar yet unique in that all forms the characteristics
yet still this one stands like freshly cut tomatoes among grapes.
The kind of seduction in time that glorifies disintegration
of the species.

The cut of a rose hides the radiance of sun rise and not
the glamour of its decay. The truth of this belle
lies in the inconsistencies of the butterfly's fold
in individuality, and not in the robustness of the stalks.
I recognized this from on the inside of that transparent
mask: from the purity of deceit. The appeal of this goddess
follows not the rule of large sample but the virtue of exclusivity.

I saw the pricks, and interpreted the deal to be
that of flaws, as they ate away my flesh in contrast
to pine. I saw not their comeliness from within the
garden. It took the revelation of separation's lessons,
the make of the daffodils' weirdness, the changing of the
seasons, the fall of appearance from the decay of others,
to make me accept, the hidden loveliness, importance,
of a rose's thorns.


By Paul Andrew Bourne, MSc. (candidate); BSc. (Hons); Dip. Edu.