The trouble with building up such walls around you is that beautiful rose, your true beauty is in the shade. As it seeks the sunlight it’s stem grows woody, inflexible & thorney. The once glorious bloom weak. Soon it’s torn, having to cling to the very walls that keep it from light & life.

One day all that fills those walls will be a thorny knotted mass that’ll shred the man that vaults the walls stark grey heights. Those knots will tangle him in you and will tear at him with every struggle he makes to reach that small, shaded bloom of beauty & lift it into the light.

The walls will one day crumble under the weight they contain, replaced by that wall of thorns. Or perhaps the stems will succeed and raise that tired bloom above those walls, but I fear when that happens along will come a calous soul that snaps your fragile faded beauty from the thorny vine.

It will seem a release from those walls & the burden of a million thorns but the calous soul will indeed lift you to the light merely to wear that rose as a button hole. Proudly displayed with chest held high. Saved from it’s thorny vines perhaps but come the dark night that rose will surely wither.

Once torn from the stem that rose will die, no longer rooted it can not survive. It’s beauty burned away from the glare of being an ornament never seen by it’s calous wearer but displayed to the world. The rose’s dulled petals will fall from it’s core, maybe revealing one last thorn that scratches the calous souled wearer. Reminded of that rose he once plucked for it’s beauty, he looks down upon it’s withered remains and plucks it once more & tosses it aside. As the rose’s brittly remains crash to the ground her one last petal of exquisite beauty falls from her grasp. Now gone is that beauty, lost forever but the walls & their thorns? They will always remain.

All for the need of a gardener who’d tend that beauty with care. He’d tear down the wall to the south that you may basque in the light. He’d leave but one wall, the one to the north so that you may shelter from the cold northerly blast, a chill – maybe your past? He’d nurture you in that prolonged never ending way gardners do. Wanting only to see that beautiful rose in endless full bloom. Pricked by your thorns he endures the pain, for his love – wall’s could ever contain.