Overrated Roses

You don’t have to smell the roses,

You can stop to smell the weeds.

In this world of calamity,

There’s beauty in the least of things.

Weeds that don’t choke the wheat

Can be lovely even with berries,

And so, welcome them I do

Because they cover rock

And receive the dew,

Offering habitat to the creatures that dwell

Who guard and gorge on the garden’s bough.

In the rocky ground

Which first was made,

Lies linear lines

And fragments of decay.

Closely, there seems to be

Increased intricate complexity;

In the stern round shape carvings,

Form fragmented rocky offerings.

Then the sweet seed sprouts sneakily,

And grows in sincerity.

And then we see the weed as foreign

Like an unwanted atrocity,

Just because our expectation is the blossoming.

Life is not always in bloom

And seasons still saturate in what is lovely.

And I shall be remiss

If I don’t mention this:

Among the weeds,

God still waters,

Like He lavishes upon His creed:

A vow to avenge and silence forever

The deceptive deeds of the devil.

And looking around, there’s an ease to notice

The beastly boasts of this world,

But still, there grows a gorgeous grove.

So, until the harvest,

We conscientiously know

That weeds grow where roses flow.

And smelling the whole garden,

Is like beholding a rainbow.

If you lean closer,

You’ll smell the fragrance of God’s splendor.