Friendship: a bed of roses?
I stand before my beautiful bed of roses day by day, every morning ready to harvest. The beauty of the flowers in their colours, red, yellow, white, pink, purple… steal my heart. What a beauty? What a marvelous creation? But it passes without thinking what is underneath those beautiful flowers. A florist will tell you! A horticulturalist will tell! I too will tell you! My hands are sour. The wounds inflicted by the roses’ thorns never heal- a rewounding every day. That scares me, it sends me into desolation, frustration, and anger… for I can’t get over it. The flowers are my live hood. They are all that I have. They make me who I am. Indeed, If friendship were like these it would be hard to walk out of it so easily. Written April 17th, 2002 © on Apr 17 2002 01:05 PM PST 0 • 8
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"I stand before my beautiful bed of roses..."