Blessed is the rose before she blossoms, contained within herself unpolluted and thriving with extraordinary vitality yet so fatal. A complete rose beautifully dormant yet brewing with the essence of life in all its disastrous glory. A nature’s mystery, a desired beauty often so replicated in the hands of man prompted up for the thirsty eyes to see. They might go parched, yes, but they will never know the ways they have mercilessly consumed that vital beauty. She remains asleep, anguished and sedated but what good will that do? She remains awake yet dormant. Sun, earth, moon, men! Behold all bow down and stare in wonder oh that glorious moment when she blossoms and she dies…the mundane touch knows nothing of beauty …it is nothing but a deadly soft grip my rose. No ..no no it’s a polluted grip which has drained and deprived you of every last drop of vitality. Behold a rose there, but don’t weep for it when she blossoms and dies. She becomes an icon of their narcissistic indulgence when she blossoms and dies.