the rose rose

the wind brought a maelstrom of gusts and blusters of all sorts.
it was a frightening day as the whirlpools of air surrounded the world
and crushed it in its monstrous claws of smoke.
the leaves became knives as they were savagely ripped from their mother branch.
and the ground became bloodied with petals and twig fragments.
the mighty oaks swayed spasmatically and swung their hair as if screaming,
the docile creek became a demonic rage of bubbled liquid
as it stung the undew'd grass with its vile spray.

and among all the pandemonium of the tempest
the apocalyptic warring of nature,
there was a dash of sanguineous red
in the middle of the clearing,
with the trees and the earth and all of nature
spinning desperately, tormentedly in a spheric 'round
a small eye of the hurricane
and there was the home of the crimson hue
the petals intact and calm
still as the folded hands of sleeping old women
and the stem, a rigid and straight serpent
dead and petrified in a severe path

and the rose rose
caught up in the storm and yet raised up on a pedestal
to observe the destruction of the world.

-Pamplemousse