As a dream would, the rose settles into the wind,
Dew rocks about the fragmented earth and crimson petals,
In a bed of flowers, the rose sways like a narcotic consciousness.
Humans collide, like ballistic butterflies,
Shards of human shadows creep over the flower bed,
Feet sweep and tear crimson companions away, like a destructive hour,
The rose still settled into the wind, yet now with a rain of brethren petals.
These feet kick about, blasting buds and stems,
In defense thorns thrash legs, swiping crimson tears,
Bleeding legs rip about the remainder of lasting petals,
And in the rose bush mosh, one last crimson tear stands.
A boot, solid hard, dark as night, moves through fluid starlight,
Ripping through tides of air, breaking atoms as a fist.
The boot comes crashing downwards,
Darting to the worlds last rose,
The worlds last beauty,
Our last breath.
Into mud, frayed petals remain, destroyed, distraught, bleeding,
Like a battle scene, roses fallen.
Our last rose,
The feet stop.
In a pandemonium of stars, the crumpled rose, begins to glow a soft ruby red,
De-creasing each fold, with a steady rhythm,
Disjointed, it moves, crunching each seam,
Each repair whistling like a storm,
Standing slowly like repairing broken bones,
It cracks back in place,
Each petal pierces sunlight with restoration,
The rose once again becomes whole,
There is hope for beauty,
We can breath again.