A Wilting Rose

Quite a lot of things don't appear to make much sense. Your mind can spew a million deranged unfathomable epilogues; each to their own with their beautiful little tales or sharp, snapping edges. Your mind can save you, or destroy you. A lump of rotting flesh has the power to make us do or feel or think anything in the world. But like a rose so delicately arching up towards the warm caress of the sun; it strives for goodness and health but the thorns around its edges are so sharp no one dares not to let their soft skin bleed. Yet there will always be that one, stubborn yet innocent little child who will see the vast shades of Crimson melt into a ruby amongst its petals, and despite the sharp walls of defence they will try nevertheless to pluck it for themselves and admire its beauty in all of its glory. Then of course, things grow old, weary, and the rose will lose its benevolent pulchritude. The child will dismiss what is no longer beautiful to the eye and leave the Rose to wilt into its final seconds of life, innocent beauty, colourful hopes, and dreams.

We feel desired when someone chooses us, and gives us attention. But like the Rose they rip us out of our natural state until they are satisfied, then they toss us away.