The thorny stalk of my white rose laid bare against a clearing sky,
her torn once-white petals strewn haphazardly on a muddy ground;
marks left by a passing storm.
I despise that storm, for what it did to my white rose.
She was fragile, undeserving of the hurt.
But it was the storm which revealed the pain hidden by her smile;
the thorns hidden by her petals.
God willing, she will get through this.
And I, I’ve promised my white rose that I will hold on to her.
Even if her thorns cut me too.
I will help her bloom again.
Work of non-fiction.