An endless field of roses
blooming in the summer sunlight.
Butterflies dance across their pretty petals,
shimmering among the gorgeous greens and rich reds.
Visitors “oo” and “ah” at the sight of them.
They look, they stare, they wonder.
They’re enchanted, entranced, enraptured by the spectacle
but they don’t see what’s really within.
Their beautiful petals conceal
their thistly thorns,
their failed friends,
their leaves lost to bugs on the muddy ground.
But that’s okay,
For a smooth stem, wounds are a small price to pay.
The dead flowers will decay.
And no one will see the pesticide spray.
No one will know
that some aren’t perfect,
that some just won’t grow,
that some once had leaflets.
Instead,
awed by the transformation from seed to blossom,
they say that each person is like a flower
full of life and potential.
I guess they don’t see
that perfection is never complete.