The rose: The symbol of promise in love and life. The truth behind the incurable afflictions of mortal mind and malleable interactions between the honest and valiant of mankind's martyrs. Appropriately, no rose can be perfect in its symbol or its existence in mortality, as is any man; So, flawed, it is lost in the darkness beyond the mind and dead within the confines of the world as we draw closer to the brink of our existence.

Sordid, I am. Rose, I can be. I write as both, for without recognition of my emanation of both, I fade behind my lie. To say that I am perfect in my affections effect is a sin. To say I am to be damnable to life without meaning... In my mind, the latter is worse. 

I am a poet, a sword on the wings of eagles; a truth that might not set a man free, but I'll go through Hell and back to show him the door out of his prison. 

I am not a saint, but I am a hypocrite in the eyes of those that call themselves saints. Hear me if you will, distance yourself if you find distance suits you; come close is my eternal invitation. I am the trampled flower, the slighted symbol, and I look to the past as I pass judgement on the words I give flight to in my aviary of literary vocation. In writing, we are more than sordid. In my own words...

Bygone to earth marks thrones of men, as thrones of earth do sovereign sit upon nothing but soil. Will you stand on only earth, rocked by waves, hung by Gods? Fool you are to say yes, yet acceptable by man. Damn man, and damn his acceptance. Is it right to conform to that which conforms like the winds to a mountain? Down says I, the rule of the flak, the imbecile that dare call himself God. Or frailty shall find your character, like death finds your soul; alone, rotten, ready to be no more. So I say be beyond men, and conform not to their ways.

So I say again in my own words, to all who I support: 'Be who you are, love what you will, and I will see you where you stand'. Who am I. Here I am.