The Roses

The garden was ephemeral. Lovely and joyous, full of life and enchantment it enticed weary wanderers and righteous renegades to come hither and catch a whiff of succulent rose or ambrosial peony. Oh and the grass was green like the scales of a dragon and the stems and bushes were hearty like the green of the Alaskan fir. They sang their song of momentum as traveler and traveler passed through the tangles of redolent grace and artistry. 

They were enticed so much, that they ignorantly neglected the bits of true life sticking out of the ground. They didn't feel the crunch underfoot, or feel any remorse. There was just too much to admire to worry about buds or sticks or things in the middle of the path. 

The sun was dull but warming and the air was alight with perturbation and bewilderment. The path was lain but the foliage, the frolic was so pure and untouched. How anyone could resist disturbing it's essence was truly a feat of mankind. And it seems that there was many a mankind underfoot. 

Each wonderer would pass a certain section before they ceased to wonder. It was a patch of roses, flush and elegant, like that of a maiden. With stems so green and brash they almost seemed like a cage or protector. And the divinity was so intense that the traveler could no longer bare and went to pick one. Just to hold the maiden's hand for only a moment. 

And then they would drop with a sting to their senses and an end to their daydream. And they're breathing would get less pensive and more alarmed until they continued a new day dream. 

And the wind would provide a final wish, and make them as beautiful as the garden. And so they would sink into the abyss, paws raised, in a final plea of sanity. 

And the roses would sit and wait for another admirer, another victim. 

Art: Roses by Vincent Van Gogh