By: Tucker Woodham
In many towns across this land
Many plants do grow
But in one town, with sea and sand
There lives a Charleston Rose
A Rose, not of dirt or mud
Or filth by such feet trodden
But one of life and flesh and blood
One not so well forgotten
A rose not of green or red
Or of some painters’ tone
but one of love and joy and peace
One I’m happy to have known
It cannot die, it will not wilt
Like other flowers there
For this fare Rose has been rebuilt
When it was left so bare
For it had fought a long, tough fight
With natures toughest foe
And if it only did give in
This Rose I’d never know!
This Rose, you see, it did not fade
Nor any color lose
Instead, it stayed in the shade
To quit, it did refuse!
But where, oh where this rose of myth, with colors yet unseen?
Where does it grow, this solum Rose where so few yet have been?
Perhaps down in a valley, away from mans’ foul hand,
Or hidden in a grotto, in some old untouched land?
Or buried in a field of stone, where sorrow grows like wheat,
Where people leave their closest friends, and pray one day to meet?
Perhaps this rose does not exist, it is merely a deceit,
Dreamt up by some lonesome man, his sorrows to defeat!
Fear not, my friend, for what I’ve spoken’s true!
This little Rose of Charleston is hidden in plain view!
In fact, dear friend, this Rose you must not find!
For she’ll leave you oh so quick, but prey upon your mind!