If I were to describe a perfect rose,
I’d say it was the reddest red,
The longest stemmed and most delicate.
I’d say it was the one
With the blossoms slightly tinged
From the suns sweet kisses.
The rose with the tiny holes
From where a worm has eaten.
The one slightly bowed in posture.
You might think this strange of me
Nothing’s truly perfect in this world
Not you. Not me.
Not even a perfect rose.
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