I am chaos; I am life in despair; all the while, the flowers remain still.
The roses, their vibrance, flourishes with pure resilience.
Sentience is a color unafraid to shine, it opposes restriction.
In the quiet, the roses define their own freedom.
I desire to grow with the roses; I am in love with their seasons.
A petal falls into a heavy somnolence.
While the leaves lay rotting, a passing breeze hollows out their graves.
Above the ground a raven sits patiently. She revels in loneliness; her gaze despises reunion.
Through her darkness I learn to let go; the wind blows fierce and alone.
The crow cries wildly, he collects the ashes, he feasts on the suffering.
Bones, pure and white as snow, block out the noise.
In a soundless fog, the cold numbs everything.
The trees tower over me, I feel powerless in their presence.
The burden of winter, of dying light, erases the impression of movement.
I am frozen.
I gasp for air and the white moth flies free.
I am breathless.
The roses are reborn over and over again; spirit regenerates.
In the silence, they sparkle, like shooting stars they fall for us.
Their growth is a sacrifice; living for love and dying in fear.
I'll die to live again, for the roses, the seasons never end.