Post by Suri Maddox on Apr 2, 2009 18:54:19 GMT -5
Death.
It surrounds the earth.
Hate.
It covers the world.
Love.
So hard to come by when no one cares.
Blissful, the silent rose lay in wait.
The earth was in a forever pause, coveted by the hate it birthed.
Dew drops suspended on a frozen leaf, trapped forever in temporal misery.
But the desecration of the world has but just begun.
The wind howls, screams, curses the world created.
A world consumed by greed, that harbors not but hate.
A rose by any other name is just as sweet.
But this rose is black, poisoned by the problems of the world.
Scarlet for one, auburn for one, cobalt for another, and peach for yet another.
But no one color is enough for the damned of the world.
Those who see only wealth and power as glory.
They don't even pause to smell to rose, or notice its wilting petals.
This world we live in, what has in come to?
We murder each other over race, religion, money, power, and just pure hatred.
Why can we not be like the rose?
Who treats every butterfly with the same passion, every honey bee with the same love.
The trees are leafless, lifeless.
The sky is a dismal, overcast grey.
And still the people fight and fight and fight.
And in the midst of this onslaught, they trample a symbol of love, of serenity.
The silent rose.
The silent rose.
Who never utters its pain.
Who never says that the runt bee can't fly near it.
Or that the brown butterfly can't harvest its precious nectar.
Bliss is not the one who has enough power to relax.
Bliss is the one who revels in the smallest aspects of their short life.
Bliss is the one who will give their all for a lost cause and succeed.
No the one who buys their way through life.
And the rose sits back and takes the abuse of her superiors.
She doesn't cry out her pain.
She doesn't attack her attackers.
Her black petals just whistle and sway, servant of the breeze.
The petals fall.
The stem wilts.
The roots shrivel and turn to leaf dust.
Even the thorns lose their intensity, becoming little more than buds.
And the pain of the betrayed, of the bees and butterflies, scream a thousand curses.
And the sky cried out its rage, tears falling to the dying earth.
And the trees bled into the soil.
And there I stood amongst it, smiling at the sad world created.
I separated the petals, throwing them to the wind, casting them to fate.
In my hand lay a seed.
A boring, nothing-special seed.
But this seed would become beautiful.
Like the one before it.
This seed would learn to live, to love, to treasure everything.
It would learn to prize not money or power, but nature and those surrounding.
Maybe one day, someone would pause, just for a moment to smell.
To smell this silent rose.
It surrounds the earth.
Hate.
It covers the world.
Love.
So hard to come by when no one cares.
Blissful, the silent rose lay in wait.
The earth was in a forever pause, coveted by the hate it birthed.
Dew drops suspended on a frozen leaf, trapped forever in temporal misery.
But the desecration of the world has but just begun.
The wind howls, screams, curses the world created.
A world consumed by greed, that harbors not but hate.
A rose by any other name is just as sweet.
But this rose is black, poisoned by the problems of the world.
Scarlet for one, auburn for one, cobalt for another, and peach for yet another.
But no one color is enough for the damned of the world.
Those who see only wealth and power as glory.
They don't even pause to smell to rose, or notice its wilting petals.
This world we live in, what has in come to?
We murder each other over race, religion, money, power, and just pure hatred.
Why can we not be like the rose?
Who treats every butterfly with the same passion, every honey bee with the same love.
The trees are leafless, lifeless.
The sky is a dismal, overcast grey.
And still the people fight and fight and fight.
And in the midst of this onslaught, they trample a symbol of love, of serenity.
The silent rose.
The silent rose.
Who never utters its pain.
Who never says that the runt bee can't fly near it.
Or that the brown butterfly can't harvest its precious nectar.
Bliss is not the one who has enough power to relax.
Bliss is the one who revels in the smallest aspects of their short life.
Bliss is the one who will give their all for a lost cause and succeed.
No the one who buys their way through life.
And the rose sits back and takes the abuse of her superiors.
She doesn't cry out her pain.
She doesn't attack her attackers.
Her black petals just whistle and sway, servant of the breeze.
The petals fall.
The stem wilts.
The roots shrivel and turn to leaf dust.
Even the thorns lose their intensity, becoming little more than buds.
And the pain of the betrayed, of the bees and butterflies, scream a thousand curses.
And the sky cried out its rage, tears falling to the dying earth.
And the trees bled into the soil.
And there I stood amongst it, smiling at the sad world created.
I separated the petals, throwing them to the wind, casting them to fate.
In my hand lay a seed.
A boring, nothing-special seed.
But this seed would become beautiful.
Like the one before it.
This seed would learn to live, to love, to treasure everything.
It would learn to prize not money or power, but nature and those surrounding.
Maybe one day, someone would pause, just for a moment to smell.
To smell this silent rose.
