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Life, being a vast garden where many roses bloom,
Entices many to forget its imminent pain and doom.
For as the roses bloom, as their gardens bear more room,
So does the wrath of life also bring darkness and gloom.
We let the roses grow, we seek to choke each thorn,
But during the process, the flesh is injured, and it's torn.
And yet we're enticed by the beauty of each flower born
For the pleasure of the flesh is to have such glory worn.
Now in the clash of life's bitterest wrath
Entwined with its most pleasant mirth,
We find essence and the highlight of our worth,
As we journey forward, as we tread through every path.
You walk on a balance, on a precarious path; to the left is the vastness of nothingness that follows us after we die, to the right is the garden of life, the garden of its roses and thorns.
Amidst the resplendent oasis of mirth, there is yet an intertwined maze of mundane misfortunes.
Roses in Thorns, is indeed, a veritable feast for the senses, a mishmash of not only the deceiving and idealistic splendours of humanity but also those very bitternesses, those dark colours of the fabric of life, that give it the characteristic contrast within its makeup, which, in the exclamation of both joys and griefs, is called Life.
