O ROSE, THOU ART SICK

Ashli

Look upon the beds of the sick and despair, for their lives are due to be sliced short by the scythe of Death. Stare upon their eyes, sunken and dull, with no recollection of a wonderful world they once pranced and danced upon. They hold no happiness, no love, no life, yet they still have petals clung to them by the fingers of their hands, grey and fading, wilting.
            But they still survive. Remark upon the slight movements of their skull that raises to meet your eyes. Praise them for their efforts to turn towards the sun and bask under the rays of existence. They absorb the light so that whatever cells within them that remain can be of some use, creating a tiny buzz of energy that may be felt in the stretching of their toes or the slow blink of their eyelids. It’s all futile: the scythe draws close with the humming of wind in the trees.
            Dear old Rose lies in a bed of flies, wasting away, ready for the vultures to tear her fingers away from her roots. No crowd gathers around her, no tears of sympathy, no salty kisses upon her withering petals. She lies and stares through heavy eyes at a world that betrays and deceives – oh how she had been waiting for this moment for decades. For the man in black to visit her rotting husk and let her spirit fly. Fly like the dandelion seeds that infest the land and laugh upon the humans that wronged her. Invade the land with the spreading weeds of her memory.
            Her wrinkled lips lift into a smile that transcribes the sharp edge of the scythe. Just a light gust upon her petals is all that is needed. One swing –
            She is free.