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.
A PERFECT ROSE (SONNET)
If I were to describe a perfect rose
I’d say it was the one of reddest red
The one which stands with an excellent pose
With shim’ring dewdrops set upon its head.
A flower that is eaten full of holes
Whose blossoms tend to curl and then sit back
One which does not grow up to gard’ners goals
And which is tinged the color of black.
I know you think this strange of me to say
Because my details vary with great ease
Descriptions tend to often fade away
As if upon a gentle summers breeze.
Nothings truly perfect in this world.
Not flower blossoms little boys or girls.
