Monday, February 21, 2011


The moonlight nimbly cascaded into the room.
It gently caressed the silent figure that stood there.
The silhouette that faced the portrait of a rose.
In a reverie, it was falling and languishing.

A gust of wind, and the windows blew open.
Fresh air gushed in, but brought with it no respite.
Droplets fell on the marble pane,
and a stream flowed down the wall.

Wintry cool breeze sent shivers down the self.
Feet planted, eyes fixed and arms hung at either side.
The aching bosom heaved and the figure shook with a sigh.
Forever, the rose would retain its beauty.

But what would become of you?
A resolute and firm countenance depicts fortitude.
So too does a determined and stern one.
Can you let the elements determine your happenstance?

Break and fall away from the portrait.
The being strived to stay above the surface.
Brighter was the moonlight now and it exposed the figure.
Darkness fled and the bare form stood unmasked.

The rose looked down at the simple self.
As the flame wavered and the candle blew out,
the clouds thundered and sent forth sentiments of malaise.
Foreboding was the witching hour.

Shadows danced around the figure, ridiculing it.
But it stayed fixated upon the flower's evermore contentedness.
Even the winds of change cannot undo the done.

And the self knew.


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