【Written by Kevin Rogers】

Born and raised by many showers.
You say with sorrow ‘cross your face
“I must display it in my vase.”
Soon then would it die, for beauty restrained
Does not beauty remain.

It becomes an ugly thing
Like Moth’s parchment wings.
And though they are a vicious sight
They make their own auspicious flight
Into that godforsaken flame.
Burned but fulfilled just the same.

The Rose’s stem your shears do shred
Ripped from its slumber in the garden bed.
Each fiber splits with silent screams
And though still spirited it seems
Already its color’s begun to fade.
You played at God and you have made

Those scarlet petals the Moth’s dull wings.
Is this the curse of living things?
Moth fulfilled by death of flower
Still yet drawn to that glowing tower.
Candle’s flame its wings ignite
Parchment wings burn scarlet bright.

Become the Rose, ye jaded Moth.
Do not die in that endless sloth.
Become the Moth, ye boastful Rose.
Deep as the shear wounds your beauty goes.
Ye mustn’t die within your chains
Broken off by bitter pains.