 |
|
|---|---|
Wednesday, January 19, 2005The Rose Prose (a small experiment by me) I wrote this a few month ago.
I noticed that the writing site that I was going on was getting increasingly "dark". people were writing more and more about 'the darkness inside' and 'the eternal pain that they feel' And so the rose prose was created. I posted it on the site and asked how many of them felt my inner pain and saw the dark beauty in my piece. You'd be suprised how many did. Rose Prose In the whole world, it grows in only one place. Even with thousands of endless fields to choose from, it will only appear in only one spot. This place will eventually come to be called ‘The Grey Meadow’. Very few people know about it, even the people that do pass through the field don’t see it as they are blinded by all the pretty colourful daisies and bluebells that surround the area. The rose probably wouldn’t mind this though, even if it were capable of thinking, for this is the way of the world. The dull looking are over looked by those that see for the beautiful and happy. There are a few people that know of the grey rose, the people that don’t stand a chance of winning the ‘miss world’ competition go for hikes through the valley and see the wilted flower stretching towards the sun, trying to catch some of the golden rays that shine down and illuminate all of the other flowers. Even these people can’t see its inner beauty. It has none. There are also the cows that graze in the field. They would probably worry more about the grey rose if it were not for the green grass that they eat all day long and as long as they eat all day then everything is good. And so it just stays there, miles away from civilisation. , living only to die, withering every winter only to be reborn again in the spring. Day after day, year after year. Wars happen. Men fight pointless battles in the meadows of the world. The grey rose stands as armies fall. The grass is turned from green to red and the cows refuse to eat there, but as the ground soaks up the deceased, the rose can do nothing but stay, rooted to the spot, its roots tainted by the blood of the innocent. A dying soldier watches as a thorn emerges on the stalk of the rose. It is different from the others; he can feel the pain in it. He watches it grow as his heart slowly stops. Wars end. What once was a raging battlefield turns into a graveyard of war heroes. Their bodies are replaced by thousands upon thousands of poppies, spreading miles over the land like a huge blanket of red petals. Old men photograph them, a symbol of the courageous but futile war effort. The grey rose is having none of it. Spoilt by the bitterness of those that died, it refuses to be overshadowed anymore. Its grey roots grow further into the ground, choking the pretty red poppies. One by one they all wilt and fall to the ground, dead. The grey rose still only grows in one field. It stands higher than anything else in the area. Surly people will see it now right? No. Nobody comes to the meadow anymore. There are no grazing animals to look at, no beautiful flowers to admire, no pointless war efforts, and after all, the world is a big place. Why would anyone notice this field when there are so many more to look at? The End like i said..... for writing click here I'd put a different site but don't know any
posted by jameswinterton @ 2:32 pm
|
|
