A single rose lies on the concrete steps.
A storm of people flood through the door,
In an ocean of feet shuffling quickly,
The rose remains in the cacophony,
Unbothered. It sits in peace.
It is a melancholy sight,
The rose knows, at any moment
It will be crushed. It may be kicked down the steps
A child might notice, an cherish it,
Only for another to crush it beneath his heel,
Only as a joke, in a teasing manner,
The rose knows this. And it waits.
It knows it shall get swept away by a janitor,
Or a gust of wind. It is beautiful, but only for a moment.
It knows this, yet it sits,
Ever so gracefully, with such poise and dignity
And I watch the single rose lying on the concrete steps.
As the crowd draws near to it,
I watch the single rose,
I watch with bated breath.
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