Vulnerability

It was lying dead on the road;
Crushed and crumpled,
All worn and torn.
Was it chosen and plucked,
Only after a while, to be thrown?

It was a saga of love and untiring devotion;
To be plucked to spread joy and warmth;
To be stripped off to decorate homes;
To be a part of the bouquet to send good wishes,
For happiness, health and forever well-being.
Nothing less, but the best it was;
Personification of "love",
Was no one else's task;
And that was the reason,
For the terrible fate it saw.

I picked up the remains of,
Whatever was left;
The fragrance now,
Being forced to dirt and dust.


I passed by a plant,
No more than a thin trunk;
Once the flowery abode,
Was now nude and bare.

What was still left,
After the ravaging theft,
Was the abundance of thorns.
They stood haughtily,
Mocking the gentility;
Pricking any hand,
That threatened their stability.
The sharp stinginess,
And personification of "hate",
Was what kept them,
Safe from harm and hurt.


Stark contrast it was,
Flowers - strewed apart,
Thorns - no one dared to touch.
The only question it raised,
Why is love more vulnerable than hate?