Purpose

The purpose of this prose

Does suppose that the rose

Knows not what it's doing

Or even the beauty it evokes

As the roots soaks up sweet liquid

Transforming sun and water into lipid cells

Creating encapsulated shells around the soon to bloom

Taking in all it can consume

moments zoom and we see the expression of its labor

Savor the flavor of its petals, as they express that given favor

Is the true savior

So why does it continue to create?

What truth lies in its wish to proliferate?

This we could debate

But I see it as love

Asking for nothing,

But still rising above