For what of those
That never find love
Search the most
Yet rarely do good.

For what of those
Who offer their hearts
To only come close
And be pulled apart.

For what of those
Who give everyone their own
But miss it by a nose
When they are only given stone.

For what of those
Who do good everyday
But are never chose
By love, to come their way.

What becomes of the rose
That is never picked
Was every hand that chose
A hand the rose pricked.

Was it so beautiful to behold
To pick it would be sick
Or did it stand so noble and bold
No one could keep their grip?

© Daniel Breslin