|The Rose (standard:poetry, 154 words)|
|Author: White Rabbit||Added: Mar 08 2001||Views/Reads: 2548/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Lemme see. Saw some roses on my desk, felt sorry for them, and proceeded to write this. INPUT PLEASE!! :)|
The delicate bud, just starting to bloom, Exuding an aura of beauty. Itís soft petals starting to curl down, Opening, revealing its magnificence. A red queen, to which all things pale, In comparison. So pure, so true, the mark of perfection. The simple shape of the petals, The sweet aroma of honey. Itís just waiting, ASKING To be marred, scarred, ruined. Cut at the prime of its time, It starts to wither, die. Still the mirror image of beauty, An invisible darkness grows within Spreading itself through every vessel of the stem Like a disease, it cuts off the lifeblood of the flower. Flooding the velvety petals with death, The fragile flower starts to wilt. Its post-perfect petals starting to curl, The stem goes soft, unable to retain its former structure, The leaves fall off, with nothing to stay on for. The vase is emptied, bare, The flower is thrown out to rot, Forgotten. Tweet
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