A Rose

It’s all an imitation

No single line is free

From guilt of association

Or making a mockery

Of the fresh facade of others

As they likely do the same

Can there be originality

By any other name?

My first word only counted

When I was able to repeat

I wonder what we’re saying

Before we learn to speak

Yet, if I made myself a martyr

And committed to the feat

Would which we call original

Still smell as sweet?