April
Sunday 14 February 2010 photo 1/1
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The rose
So amorous in its display. The simplest gift to show appreciation, friendship, love.
A rose can be simple. It can be beautiful.
It may possess a fragrance that enslaves even the most innocent of humans.
It may pierce your skin, make you bleed.
It may lay untouched, rotting away, decaying.
It may emit a putrid stench and sicken the strongest of men.
It may have a purpose, a meaning to do good.
My rose is malformed. Sick. So macabre that my own senses numb.
I cannot speak.
Barely a muttering escapes my lips in my bewilderment.
It drops to the ground.
Through its petals, a stream of agonizing tears flow.
It is bleeding.
The rose did not fulfill its purpose. It is killing me.
Gently.
Tranquilly.
It is almost pleasant how I slowly wilt together with my very own flower of death.
And so now, I slowly wither away, into nothingness, into my fate, accepting it, embracing it, as my duty.
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