An elegant crystal vase was gingerly stored on a hidden shelf in a paramount place.
Someone did not want a prize so precious to be disturbed or break.
These same prudent hands plant artificial roses in a real flower bed.
Her worn heart could not bear watering and tending just to risk one day finding them dead.
There are different degrees of loss; those we loose by chance, and the ones we loose by choice.
Both hurtful, like a thorn, but one steals the experience of the rose and all it's joys.