A rose, the wind whispering faintly through its petals, soft and gentle.
Its heavenly aroma enticing all.
So young, still budding, but breathtakingly beautiful.
Silky red, rich in tones, scarlet, the deep red blood of humanity dipped on the petals like morning dew.
Its slender stalk waving in the wind, steadily blowing, harder and harder, intent on knocking this exquisite specimen down.
Waiting, waiting, waiting in a knowing silence.
The blood still fresh on her tips.
A rose is not guiltless, innocent as it may seem.
Every rose has its hand in the downfall of us everyday beings.
Those roses watch silently as our life crumbles into a pile of dust.
A rose may die, but life goes on.
Our world may stop, despair, but the Earth keeps moving.
But while the flower lives, it lives life to the full
A passion, burning like the sun, engulfs her very fiber, her soul, her being
A rose may be one flower amongst a million
But is still considered the most “sublime”.
A rose, no matter how fierce or ferocious her thorns may seem,
It is still fragile, and tender. And mortal.
Fire destroys, but also makes anew.
Fire destroys. Fire spreads. Fire kills.
And in its wake, is rich new fertile soil,
Awaiting a new rose to escape from the clutches of its warm embrace.