Always, it's the silent one.

No place and no time can one pose, to match the beauty of a white white rose. It does not seek to be beautiful, but to make others beautiful by making defects in itself, and in doing so, shows its quality, the very highest. A torn petal, or a thorn too sharp, a bud that doesn't bloom. The red rose is much more favoured, it's almost always perfect and so, more popular. Oh, open your eyes to reality, won't you? The perfect is selfish, and the defected is pure. It's so much more than pure, it's selfless. There's a puddle of black ink dirtying the floor. The white rose on the plant above falls down onto the puddle. Slowly, it seeps up the ink, till there's nothing left, but a black rose, now being trodden on by people who admire the pretty mosaic.

On the Coach

These brown blinds are strange,
From long to short they range.
Framing white windows, they
Both protect and obscure, may.

Light catches on them and plays.
Many patterns they form, these rays.
I see this world in many lights,
Even during the long cold nights.

When the sun is up and about,
The shades give one other a clout.
Bunching together, so I can see,
Through a rainbow symphony.

I turn sharply to my right side,
The seat's empty, like after-tide.
I see you in the distance, doing
Something you'd now be denying.

Music plays, their words ripple
Lightly, but they make me topple.
They are the words you thought,
The words you, not I, now forgot.

It's on the Coach, it seems, that
Everything happens: a little chat,
And maybe some pretence too.
Yes, always, pretence, that's true.

A year, to the date, and I fear,
We will forget all of yesteryear.
It's like I'm clutching at a dream
I wake up from, now just a stream

Of the real thing. A little glitch
Which I forget before I can stitch
The whole picture together as one,
Too late it's gone, now watch it run.

On and on till it's out of sight
And I can't follow, left or right?
The blinds are coming down again
They help to shield from the rain.

The rain that is squeezed right out
From the white clouds under, a bout
Of wet weather. When they open,
All is well, light once again seeps in.

These blinds of mine, shall I decide
To take them down so I can see a side
I've never been able to with them
Let down, I'll see more than it's hem.

Maybe then I'll understand why
They do what they do, I can try
To understand what goes on when
Blinds are let down, closing the den.

I'll be able to see the whole coach,
All the people and their approach
To dealing with troublesome blinds
Both involuntary and spoilt kinds.

It's a moving coach, it won't stop
To let us adjust blinds that hop
Up and down, so I'll have to learn
To hold them up till we make a turn.

We will slow down then, and I can
Ask you for advise on how to man
These blinds, till then my time I'll bide
And hope I'll see you in the seat beside.

Hey, Goodbye.

Dear pal, goodbye.
You are gone forever.
Gently still I sigh,
Stop you, can I never?

First an ephemeral glimpse,
Then that sudden smile.
You were like one who limps,
Slowly yet but mile on mile.

All this while I kept my peace,
Knowing that anything I said
Would destroy all of your ease
And that happy life you lead.

Maybe that was my mistake,
Maybe you were wronged.
I am afraid I cannot take
Back, how much I had longed.

There is nothing I've left to say
But Goodbye, may your wisdom
See you on your perilous way
To your very own Kingdom.

Alone or surrounded,
I cannot now know.
It's time you wielded
A hand by which you glow.

And may that glow see you through
A life about which I have no clue.