Rose is the deadliest of hunters. She waits for us all, stalking kings and queens at regal births. Amid spectacular dreams of deathbeds, Rose hovers, urging history’s truest lovers to swoon, for maidens to dance and to tempt all lovelorn, gentle souls to pace and to pass into dim shadows of regret, wistfully romancing the days of all time.
Rose waxes, feral and fey, oozing a single, glistening, jeweled bead of tempestuous, primordial sweat from deep within the rapacious heart of savagery. Companion upon misery’s most daunting road, we are welcomed and fore-sworn by such bouquets as Rose would grace. Rose shatters the air with such heavy expectation, pouncing upon the hand, the nose, the eye, the lips of each unwary traveler caught bending to honour the hunter upon the bush.
Rose’s petal-skin is heavy; so ponderous and human that my hand, trapped, fondles the damp weight of such cool and cruel yearning, I am caught in hungry suffering, bound in the spiral entrapment that Rose has set for me and won.
Rose is wan, drifting in such melancholic triumph, she plumply sags and wistful, I mourn her passing, never certain just how much of my soul, this heart, all wonder of the world is taken as she falls.