My nest of red and white roses is slowly melting away once again; only to reveal the bed of grey, diamond thorns, surrounded by black candles that are lit by a fool's tears one by one. I lay here to stay alive. I lay here to know I can feel. I mold the pedals of the melted roses Into a mask for any one who may question this scene. After the wicks of each and every candle are burned to dust behind this opaque, clear, and lonely curtain, I will put down the mask. And I will sleep. But in the garden I will resurrect with its permission. And in the garden the nest of roses will grow. And in the garden the nest of roses will stay. Safe from the diamomd thorns that are being crushed beneath by the last candle's refusal to be lit.
