The Rose
In the pit of hell, I saw a flower, a real one, not plastic. It said something to me: I am here, the sun is shining above, and you will be with me one day, under the sun, receiving the fragrance of its light upon your skin and inner being as do my petals receive its light in loving nourishment.
You, rose flower, reddened and known to me this day, are beautiful and beyond my reach, yet in receiving the red and delicate beauty, the sense, of your reddened layered being, settled with softened pollen, spread evenly upon the surface of your hued and petaled leaves, a soothing touch of my palms’s caress, I may survive a hundred years in remembrance of you and in palpable hope of your softened, waven surface.
The sun shone upon me in warmth unfamiliar to my hardened, cold blooded skin. My rose, I have become as you, a softened petaled leaf, a miracle to nature, a miracle to man, a miracle to me.
