The Fact Of The Matter..

There is a lovely rose in my garden,

As perfect as any rose can be,

It's colour is the deepest shade of red,

It's petals as tender as they come,

And it's fragrance as delightful as it gets.

Yet, there was something about it that was out of place,

To begin with, I noted,

That it's head invariably was a little down turned,

The thorns on its stem were over eager to pierce,

And it's mood was always a bit too sombre.

Wondering, one day,

I asked it the matter what it was?

It answered, but in a voice too faint,

Bringing my ear closer to its lips,

I requested if it could kindly repeat,

Hesitant, but finally obliging it said -

“These days I am running a bit depressed.”