I would compare us to the Beauty and the Beast, but I have not such low self-esteem


so as to compare my countenance to that of the beast,


and you, clearly, do not fit the bill. You could try for 100 years and you still would be too lovely


too kind


to be sincerely seen as a beast,


for beauty is in the eye of the enchanted rose


that withers and droops


when time and love run out


not because it needs to see beauty to love


but because it needs love to see beauty


that can be so eloquently described in any number of letters, for as many poets, such as Shakespeare, have pointed out,


you are not a rose.



A rose cannot think such beautiful thoughts, nor laugh joyously nor weep, though it tries


with the dew that collects on its rosy petals


and drips slowly down the stem


of all our problems, that is, uncertainty...




If you were a flower, so much more delightfully complex than a rose, or a chrysanthemum,


or even a Venus Fly Trap,


you would curl your indigo petals into your deep eye;


eyes that is;


for you simply could not be,


not if you tried for 100 years,


a rose


a beast


a ray of sunlight softly pushing through blue curtains in a red velvet room- curtains that do not symbolize sadness but


are simply blue curtains;


or anything but the smiling valiant sinner


of you

This poem is about: 
Our world


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