Engrained and rich in the soil,
As it reminds me of your hair.
Deep within the dirt of prickly veins,
And unseen roots.

This is not when a rose begins to bloom.

Days to weeks past,
Dusk and dawn repeating away.
As the ray of the sun and crisp of waters,
Appears to be a sprout, rising to be embraced.

This is not when a rose begins to bloom.

As more time past,
The sprout becomes strong and independent,
Dangling in the wind
The freedom it will soon to love is now radiant and new.

Yet again, this is not when a rose begins to bloom.

Withstanding appears to be the start of a new journey, as the purity of crimson becomes a mature scarlet.
But remains to stay hidden.

This is not when a rose begins to bloom.

Leaves begin to show the personality of you.
As the thorns reveal the secrecy and hurt.
Still remaining strong as the obstacles of the wind try to knock you down.

This is not when a rose begins to bloom.

The more open and accepting the rose becomes,
The More expressive one can be.
From the roots till now the beauty of one's soul remains intact and bearable to the truth.

That is when a rose begins to bloom.