At the end of every stem of thorns should rest a lovely flower,
A crown of beauty atop the suffering,
The reward for the endurement of pain,
The tempation towards what ails and ills.

Below every stem of thorns should grow assorted roots,
The heart of the plant and source of lifeblood,
Some foundation of love and caring,
Upon which rests the magnificence of futurity.

This world is not carefully tended garden of delights,
But a rank and twisted menagerie,
Of disappointments and trials and pain,
Punctuated rarely by some respite of joy.

Desperate to live, to love, to enjoy we flit and grasp,
Tearing our hands and souls upon vines,
Enduring every prick and loss of vitality,
In hopes that our flower is there.

Some stems of thorns end in more thorns and more pain,
Many stems hold the decayed remnants of buds,
A few hold a delicate flower,
All too often destroyed in the picking.

Stop.

Smell the roses.

Dirty your hands if you must; dig about.

Pray for the beauty that too often evades and eludes.