Roses from afar

Are impeccably exquisite

As they sit perched

On forest-green bushes

Like a woman

Sitting for a portrait

Moving closer, you find

That the roses are guarded

Protected by thorns,

Locking themselves away from you

As if they have experienced pain before

And don't want to know it again

Roses are forced

To be something they aren’t.

Told to conform to a society where

There is no odd one out

Roses are delicate.

Most likely because

They have been broken and fractured before

By hands other than theirs

Roses are like women

Flawless on the outside

Injured on the inside

Until one day they shatter like glass