Fragments Of White Roses

Torn to pieces by famished birds
A bed of white roses
The creamy petals violated by beaks and claws
Every green stem left with scars
Oozing clear liquid from their pores
Each flower now covered in bits of dark soil
Robbed of their beauty as they are no longer standing straight
But hunched over and turned to fragments
A mere imitation of their previous state
But the roots are untouched
Despite the brutality of these avian hoodlums
The flowers are not dead, just injured
They can and will flourish again
Becoming even more exquisite and elegant
And if the birds do return,
They will have bigger thorns to poke them with.