Stepping on the Roses

A red rose bush lies trampled underneath,
The hardened soles of the bustling crowd,
Its petals ground like lettuce under teeth,
Their beauty never seen by hearts too proud
To turn from leading their lives fast and loud,
Blind to elegant splendors that adorn
The world in varied forms, behind a shroud,
Under which they feel only the plant’s thorn,
Never pausing to sense with their noses,
The flower’s sweet smell; and so, faces worn,
The crowds march on, stepping on the roses.