The Rose

Who is the rose?
Only one knows.
Two if you count the rose,
Twelve if you count her toes.

Just a little scruffy,
With a mismatched petal or two.
But this Rose is so damned perfect,
Perfect, I tell you.

The stem isn't straight,
Rather it curves over to the side.
But if I said this Rose wasn't perfect,
Then I'd have to say I lied.

The red color is faded,
And it doesn't at all stand out.
But that very shade may be,
Why it seems to stand and shout.

My attention it sure did grab,
I stared with either love or lust.
To this day I know not which,
Just that it is perfect and just.

Dare I water the rose,
And risk ruining its heavenly state?
To make it redder and prettier,
Would be to alter its perfect fate.