Lessons

A child strutted down a gray gravel lane

That laid between a rose garden fenced frame

The young boy ran his fingers thru the brush

Filling the air with a strong floral musk

Suddenly, he retracted his hand with a wince

When it snagged some thorns on the rose garden fence

He cried aloud as his fingers ran red

The kind of yelp his mother did dread

So she descended from the house which they lived

To find her young son waist-deep in roses

She pucked him from the garden with care

& inquired in the first place, why he was in there

He replied to his mother, he wanted it dead

To kill the rose that had made him to bled

She cleared her throat, smiled, then said,

“My dearest child, do not be misled. Killing the rose won’t cure your bloodshed.”

This made the boy cry even harder it seemed

He already killed the rose in a vengeful fury

His mother smoothed the tears from his cheeks

Cleared her throat & again began to speak,

“It’s ok to feel bad. It’s all apart of life. After all, what is happiness if not in contrast to strife?”