The reality of a Rose

oxJnKsm8B24

He couldn’t contain himself, he picked that rose from the garden so fast, he tore skin, crimson drops fall redder than the rose itself.
His heart pounding harder than his heels on the pavement, he ran to his love.
He reached her doorstep and called her name.
She came to her window, saw the rose in his hand but before she could get to him, the earth had opened up and swallowed him whole.
There in it’s darkness it asked him, “Why did you steal that rose?”
In shock and still in disarray he replied, “Who is that, where am I?”

“I am the love that was poured into that rose.

I am the sweat off the brow of the rose bed owner.

I am his arthritis in his knees as he sat on the floor, digging a hole to plant the seed.

I am his finger nails which were dirty with labour.

I am his palm which gently put just enough soil over the seed to allow oxygen, water and sunlight so that it may germinate.

I am his early mornings and late nights spent watching over it to ensure the soil and nourishment was just right.

I am the prune blades used to cut me back down so my ego doesn’t grow out of proportion and I may stand straight with pride, humble with beauty.

I am the stalk with which supported the rose in full bloom.

I am the fragrance which enchanted his heart and kept him alive every morning.

I am him, I am love, I am purity and devotion. You, are nothing but a thief, lustful, thoughtless and without compassion.

So I will teach you how to become dung for the earth so that you may know me, know love, know what it means to give to something living, not take something to die.”

-W.E. ©

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s