A brilliant rose ready to bloom.
Only to find enclosed within the bud a imperfections dwell on every petal.
Despite the tendency to cower in shame the flower looks at the facts, and sheds a few tear to mourn the pain.
The greater the distance the greater the power you forfeit to the unknown.
All the while in the same bed neighboring flowers cover themselves in bright powder to hide their similar imperfect interiors.
Feigning ignorance and fervently attempting to increase the distance from the condition that afflicts them all.
In a field of imperfect roses, who’s willing to admit they are one?