There she sits, watching and watering a withering corpse of a fading red rose.
Her first spontaneous marriage.
As she does
Clad in a sultry skirt and a worn pouty smile, the
maiden exudes disillusionment.
Broken, she envisions soft silkened
rosy red petals of plush.
A soul-less skeleton of what used to be
She fails to notice.
We dare not advert her
The blackened rose lay hardening in the infertile
soil, producing less and less young flirtation.
and face contortions were the maiden's newest expressions.
she waters with lowered expectations.
An impotent rage fires
through her smile.
She is hurt.
Murmurings become pleas.
She is finally put out of her misery.
We watch in amusement as the head of the rose gradually bows into
The rest crumples into a callous heap.
Death's secretary had already sent for the once spry sensual
Days pass before she approaches the makeshift
Draped in black, she takes her usual seat near the
tragic tomb-less dirt area.
Never taking her bagged eyes off the
remaining limbs of the rose, she fastidiously takes a small wooden
cross from inside her robe.
Inscribed on it, a single word: “Love”
After placing one
quick somber kiss on the relic, she stuck it viciously in the ground,
bookmarking the end of this chapter.