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The Rose stands alone (standard:poetry, 0 words)
Author: UnsunAdded: Jun 18 2001Views/Reads: 1852/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Those who are of consequence are the ones who wield the power.

Cold solid steel. Uncaring nonchalant and utter utterly merciful. It
shines robustly in the lamp light, its light is almost alive, almost. A 
jaunty half life which bestows upon it a happy mercy that no real 
living may possess. It has been created by a living hand and has 
surpassed its creator. The one who hammered it, fired it, honed it to a 
razorís edge, is now a step behind. 

This blade, unadorned un-decorated and utterly plain. Flays skin from
bone, as it would butter on a hot day. Painless and sterile. Even in 
the dark. The cut of an unseen blade. A sharp nick on the wrist or a 
stab in the back. Is not but the smallest sting. It is sharp and it is 
clean and it is plain. And so its assaults are of no consequence. For 
all itís efficiency it cannot harm me. 

It cannot harm me the way the rose can. The rose with delicate gossamer
carmine petals. It calls to me with a beauty that wreaks of delicacy. 
Of beauty that calls me to protect it. A beauty that speaks to the 
oblivion inside my heart and calls forth the sun. The sun a burning 
sphere of love and rage. That delicacy, that frailty calls upon a 
primal desire, a proverbial need to protect, to shelter to care and 

But, the hazel thorns wonít let me. Even before they prick me and draw
out a drop of lifes blood, a warning as it were. Even before their edge 
is felt, I know. They ward me away, beauty wishes to stand alone. And 
thus the rose cuts before I even lay a finger upon it. As the sun 
called forth is denied its destination, it destroys and ravages my 
mind. As its fires scorch my brain with urgency the urgency of a 
drowning mans need to breathe. I lash out blindly.  My hands becomes 
swords and friends twist into shadows, shadows to black winged arch 
angels come to reap my soul. I fight blindly to protect the rose that 
wonít let me near, even as I know there is no threat even as I know the 
rose does not wish to be protected. And when the fury is gone I find 
myself, beaten and bloody, worn and sleepless, with oblivion resting as 
a stone within my heart and with my hands buried in stone.


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