The difficulty with being inclined toward studies in the liberal and creative arts is that when inspiration hits, all else falls by the wayside. In some cases this has a drastic effect on your life, for example causing you to spend your days writing an original musical score and script instead of finishing high school geometry (i.e. Rilla-my-Rilla/ a post for another time); In others this merely means missing a few valuable words from your English professor (although these particular words were spoken in Middle English, so I couldn't really understand them anyway) on a Friday afternoon. Whatever the size of the "inspiration", you may be sure that if left until later it will disappear as quickly as it set in: such is the fickle nature of creativity, and who am I to dismiss such an urging?
"A good student," my mother would probably reply.
But anywayyy, the result of this particular wave of melodramatic artistry was a few basic lines I've decided to call The Autumn Rose. I'm not sure if the meaning behind the words is obnoxiously clear or if it just sounds like a load of what my dear Aunt Kiki likes to call "hogwash", but here goes:
The Autumn Rose
If the rose pierced not with thorn
And drew not blood and pain
Its beauty would be dulled,
Too easy to obtain.
For ev'ry scented bud
Bears with it stings below
And each that seeks its flow'r
Must perseverance show.
Still in the morning hour
Lade heavy down with dew
The drooping petals loved
Will prove that love most true.
For when the sun awakes
And warms the rose's soul
It's glory will spring forth
The blossom now most full.
But only the brave heart
Will glimpse this beauty pure:
He whose piercéd hands
Sought patiently and sure.
Yet for those fervent two
Who waited till the dawn
The bloom will be most sweet
For sorrows undergone.
