have you ever noticed the black haze that appears to hover around the petals of a red rose.
the dark outline that gives them the illusion of blood red velvet.
I love the evil, ominous beauty
On the surface they seem such a cliché, but there is a reason they have remained a symbol of raw passion, raw bone deep love throughout the ages – they possess the whispered notion of blood and violence. Provoke images of pools of black red, caught in the recesses of devotion. They possess the potent, consuming nature of love and passion. They are a visual display of the thin lines that exists between lust and violence. There is nothing more romantic than the death of a lover, for the sake of his hearts desire. In death he becomes of martyr for truth. Suicide becomes heroic sacrifice. murder – protection. Yes, Love is a brother of blood to death.
And all that can be captured within the budding brilliance of a rose, and as all things of passion, cannot be lost in the shriveling of its form. a dry, dead rose petal still breathes memories, still reflects the power of its life. A dry, dead rose petal, spreading with black and rusty-brown is almost more than its former self. It inherits a haunting voice, that advocates for meaning in self-destruction, purpose in misery.
A red rose offers no escape from the pain.
A red rose is my favorite flower.
I hate the glear of bright circus flowers that are mocking in their giddy perfection.
A red rose offers no escape from the pain, And I am sick to death of escapes.
What happened to the exit route, the normal door for a farewell with intention of return? Why now are there only cracked, misleading paths framed by danger signs and dead ends. And why can’t there be a crew brought in to repair the damage and construct a new one. A bridge to the daisy fields that used to live in sight.
Now there is nothing but the risk of losing all forever – one foot misplaced and there are no soft downs to catch but infinite falls to condemn.
I always notice the black haze that appears to hover around the petals of a red rose.
I love the darkness, I fear the darkness. The darkness is my own.