Weed Of Solitude; A Rosy Story

Amidst the mighty rose bush,
Stood a tiny lonesome weed.
The roses glow with their blush
The weed bowed his heavy head, indeed.
The rosy charm was glorified.
The cursed weed watched silently, mystified.

Not a friend had he in his dwelling.
Nor noticed by any ‘Awwing’ human being.
He stood alone, his heart swelling
With pity and numbness at his solitary being
The rosy fairness was glorified.
The dull grey weed watched silently, mystified

The roses were plucked, gifted and worn,
Smelled, sniffed , photographed; enjoyed.
The weed shrunk even more; grown-
Unwanted, unnoticed, grounded; dignity destroyed
The rosy smell was glorified
The smell-less weed watched silently, mystified.

Many a rose came and many a rose went
The weed lived on, not in vain,
But in solitude the weed only laments
He too valued beauty in sight plain-
What’s inside? He forgot in pain.
Still,
The rosy short life was glorified
The weedy soul watched silently, mystified.

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