Massacre of Roses.
A glass vase engorged with the bitter sweet mopeing Texas roses.
A cluttered wooden end table with the rose petal carnage spread upon its many contents.
This is where I lay the scene of the reality of momentary beauty.
Light refracts from the crystal clear water engulfed by the smooth glass in which the gloomy flowers dwell.
Their thin unnourished stems bend slightly to the power of time.
The pale pink tragedy that is the poor dismembered rose buds lay helpless on the dark brown wood.
The sweet southern manner of the last scentful breathes of these withering petals lingers in the air.
Wandering the rooms of this suburbian home like fading ghosts.
Shocks of lavender and mauve trickle amongst the muted soft pinks of the petals still connected to their stems.
The stems adorned witht he earthy green leaves that contrast with the warm colored buds and petals.
The bowing buds of the roses glow like white and violet fireballs inflamed by the dim but unrelenting sunlight.
But still my heart quakes for the massacre time has taken on these beauties of nature.
The rose buds weep for their broken wilted petals as a mother weeps for her lost child.
A loss like no other.One you dont come back from completely.
The scene of massacred roses illuminates my senses.
Could a rose in fact feel loss or pain just like the human race?
Or is this all just a realization of dying beauty.and how nothing feels as we do.