Glass Roses

I was strolling through the garden
of a house made of crystal
when I stumbled upon a bed
of gorgeous glass roses.
Carefully, I picked the tallest one
and held it against the mid-day sun
which was beating down on the garden
made of colored glass.
It was so pure and beautiful
with its petals
fashioned with great care
I loved the way it caught the light
and its colors sparkled against
the bright blue sky behind it.
It was so perfect and graceful
that when I realized it would never fade
or wilt like the roses I had held before,
I almost wept with joy.
With the wind at my back
and the silken grass at my feet
I gripped the rose tight
and kissed it gently on its cool petals
feeling its perfection against my lips.
But when I looked to the ground
to find a place to sit
I saw three drops of crimson
slide down the rose's smooth stem
and into the dust below.
On my hands were seven bleeding cuts.
And on the rose were seven blood-stained thorns.
"Even glass roses have thorns,"
I mumbled to the earth.
But unable to stand the pain
I set the rose gently on the ground
thinking I could come see it another day.
But when I returned
many years down the road,
I found the garden of glass shattered
and in the middle
the broken shards of my gorgeous glass rose.

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2 Responses to Glass Roses

  1. Taryn Cella says:

    THis poem touches me. It is so true that the world is once beautiful but even in the brightest of times there is pain. You must cherish those times and never forget them because as soon as you let it go it will shatter like the rose.

  2. sarah says:


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