(no subject)
My Rose.
The crimson. A color that can remind you of so much hurt, and so much joy, and lust all at once. A rose is an even more perfect symbol for love than a paper heart. The thorns. The jagged edges of love that prick you to make you ooze the color of death. The color of pain, the color of the most beautiful flower. A withered rose. Most like any form of love everyone will come to know and hate. Dry and dark. Darker than the very soul that swears it will never be called back into love's arms again. A rememberance of times past. Times not wanting to be forgotten. Knowing that once this rose was, much like a new lovers soul, fresh, raw, willing, forgiving, beautiful. The heart beleives nothing of what the mind says. The mind is always the fool. It bows, a servant. A servant to a greater power known as love, the rose, it is the sense in every situation. The good to every evil. So it seems.
The crimson. A color that can remind you of so much hurt, and so much joy, and lust all at once. A rose is an even more perfect symbol for love than a paper heart. The thorns. The jagged edges of love that prick you to make you ooze the color of death. The color of pain, the color of the most beautiful flower. A withered rose. Most like any form of love everyone will come to know and hate. Dry and dark. Darker than the very soul that swears it will never be called back into love's arms again. A rememberance of times past. Times not wanting to be forgotten. Knowing that once this rose was, much like a new lovers soul, fresh, raw, willing, forgiving, beautiful. The heart beleives nothing of what the mind says. The mind is always the fool. It bows, a servant. A servant to a greater power known as love, the rose, it is the sense in every situation. The good to every evil. So it seems.