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Roses
A garden was built for all to see.
I walk in, expecting the smell of flowers
to hit me like a wave crashing down on to
the sand.
Instead, all that hit me was the realization that
all the flowers had wilted.
Had I come too late? No.
The earth was damp and the the shining
made the air as warm as toasted bread.
The soil had been made to be rich in the
necessities of the dull colored flowers.
Everything was perfect. Everything, but the
muted rainbow still begged to be helped.
What else did it need?
I picked up a rose, a singular rose.
The color had been pink but it was
so lifeless that you could barely tell it ever
had color at all.
My hand turned red with a thick liquid.
The thorns, which once protected the
rose, now hurt those who meant it no
harm.
I pulled gingerly at a petal like a school girl
playing, "He loves me, he loves me not."
One pull, 2 pulls, 3, and it's already crumbling like
I'm squeezing packed snow.
I stare at the pale green beneath me,
watching the petals ashes fall gently.
I walked to the gate of the dead garden
filled with disappointment, hoping someone
could fix it.
Someone else to do the job.
I never saw the spotted leaves spilling out
of the garden.
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This article has 3 comments.
I made this during the summer. I was thinking about current events when I realized that we always try to fix the most obvious problems without looking deeper. You can do everything correctly in a garden (in terms of the obvious) and still get wilted flowers.