What became of the rose that grew from Concrete?
Did blood-soaked grounds birth a bed of roses or a death bed?
Was nature's law proved supreme?
Where death is preordained?
Did old soles of the feet spawn as a new soul of wings?
Does that rose still breathe; perhaps still soak in the sun?
What fate does this flower who conceived a dream know?
Perhaps sulking in the rain; reincarnation, or God's Reign.
I have heard the voice of this rose.
Art Is after all chos captured.
From concrete floors to tears of woe.
Have you heard of the Poet who knows no Death.
