I was strolling through the garden
of a house made of crystal
when I stumbled upon a bed
of gorgeous glass roses.
Carefully, I picked the tallest one
and held it against the mid-day sun
which was beating down on the garden
made of colored glass.
It was so pure and beautiful
with its petals
fashioned with great care
I loved the way it caught the light
and its colors sparkled against
the bright blue sky behind it.
It was so perfect and graceful
that when I realized it would never fade
or wilt like the roses I had held before,
I almost wept with joy.
With the wind at my back
and the silken grass at my feet
I gripped the rose tight
and kissed it gently on its cool petals
feeling its perfection against my lips.
But when I looked to the ground
to find a place to sit
I saw three drops of crimson
slide down the rose's smooth stem
and into the dust below.
On my hands were seven bleeding cuts.
And on the rose were seven blood-stained thorns.
"Even glass roses have thorns,"
I mumbled to the earth.
But unable to stand the pain
I set the rose gently on the ground
thinking I could come see it another day.
But when I returned
many years down the road,
I found the garden of glass shattered
and in the middle
the broken shards of my gorgeous glass rose.