The rose no longer blooms as it ought to, dropping when sunlight should make it glow. I prick my fingers on its thorns, and feed it with drips of my bleeding, this need swelling up in me, unsatisfied, and I am reduced to a beggar, so pathetically desperate to see the rose glow again, stirred deep in the night to seek out what is no longer there. Even the scent has gone sour, and yet, I hold it up to my face, aching to catch a whiff of what I once embraced.
How does one revive a dying rose, restore its beauty and its
glow, make it again what it once was, or perhaps it can never be again, once
cut from the bush that brings it life, and makes it flourish. One can find no
joy clutching a dead rose, or squeeze from it a scent it no longer possesses.
This sad thing I hold, still makes my hands bleed, but no matter how tight I
hold it, I get no pleasure
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