The Rose
I don’t remember a lot of things; usually I cannot help but be clutched by the whittling hands of life. Sometimes when I sit perfectly still and trick myself into a soft slumber, my dreams swiftly manage to escort me away from my weary life to places where the memories that I can never grasp are born.
In my dreams I may visit a lush though overgrowing garden, deep in the crevices of May. The amber sun bores heartily on my back as I explore the garden. I lean over the harlequin grass to move the messy thorns with such care not to harm myself, I spy an object of such beauty that not even the garden’s excitements could not compare. As a larger quantity of thorn-ridden branches fall clumsily to the grass, something amidst the tiny alcove where the thorns were sparkles.
Such an object would be found being sculpted by angels in the depths of heaven; it’s a rose.
The rose shimmers as I reach out to caress one of the seemingly everlasting rose petals.
To touch the cerise petal would have the same effect as if you were to stroke a dove’s feather. I look back to my hands and gander at what they have become; the rose’s angelic magic had gently wafted away from the petals onto my hand. I could see other beatific glitter which was lightly floating away in the wind to other pastures, much further away, perhaps some with roses that were as blue as an impossible moon emitting a serene ultramarine.
Surrounded by thoughtful, tranquil scenes, the depth of my slumber intensified...
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