Dry and brittle
Delicate in its withered beauty.
A sheer scarlet.
Reaching out to touch the weary traveler.
One should stop to seek its wisdom.
That of a hundred petals...this one shall remain.
Not touched by the human hand...but of a silver whisper.
Hidden in the linings of the wind.
A mystery not yet foretold.
Why one so cold and cruel and calculating would take one so innocent?!
A precious flower in all her translucent shine.
The answers lie not in the forgotten hand.
Nor in the tears of the called placed nearby.
The struggles will never be understood this side of the great divide.
Silently the universe will whisper the beckoning wishes of all those who go forth.
To which one shall bring a fragment of her charm and wit.
Nary does one dare touch the thorn which extends.
Rather to ignore and return to the existential.
The part that remains to be seen.
A gentle golden child in all her fragrance and mist.
The rose laid upon the crystals of ice shall remain.