With every second that passes, it bows even more, respecting the time it was given on this earth, and its head filled with the magical brilliance of a powerful red force gets slowly polluted by the agony of its passing, those dark black spots of an ending life.Taken over by these black spots, she surrenders herself to the adoration of her beauty. Simple and pure.
Life in a rose is taken away from her to be given to us, humans. In adoration of our mundane, fake personas. Our masks so beautifully set to the perfect rhythm of deceit and plastic lives. Our needs, animalistic as can be, take over our sense of self and pride. They shatter the reasons for our lives, a celebration that links us back to this beautiful, innocent rose.
This rose knows why its given life, and bows in respect for what it was meant to show, so innocent and pure.
But what about us? As we present our dying rose, we hold a somewhat egotistical self, animals of wants and needs, we destroy what was given to us in shear self-love and worship to grow with what we will leave behind.
Sitting in her vase, this dying rose knows, that part of her is living again, in a heart, in a soul. And that this magic that created her in the first place is formless and pure, and it is now the time to move on.