My Mother's Garden
Through these veins runs a softness - from my fullest of existence, I dream of reclining into myself. From my spine, this sliver of silk, shall crumple and fade.
It is thought to be the end, when the rose embraces the decay. Often shunned, trapped beneath the black plastic lid of a garbage can, the roses’ beauty is lost? Within darkness it will coddle itself, the new yellow tone invited: in passing it can produce its own sunlight. Silk will respire and expire, warp wilts and the weft shrivels, the petals immortalize themselves. The petals of the rose cry at their own beauty. What all claim as perfection is merely the concept. The manifestation is too often forgotten; only the patient are rewarded by time. Once the eye has adjusted to darkness, the light emerging from the wax is fabled to bloom into the petals of the rose once more.
Decay- an exquisite beauty
The leaving - perhaps the beginning