The Last of the Scarlet

by : epiphanies

I'm bleary-eyed and watchful. My cheeks are damp from collected dew on this clear and fragrant morning.

I see a serpent slither toward me in the glass lake and I fear, but not too much.

The world has forgotten me as I lay, broken, on this patch of untravelled road. Benches litter the pathway and the occasional butterfly wanders by.

I pick a white flower with a green stem - it seems to be my only comfort in these tragic days of late - for all of the red flowers have withered. I catch the scent of the flower - my eyes widen, for it is intoxicating! The petals are fresh and soft, and a light powder escapes the centre.

I sigh and the flower flutters to the ground. The red ones were so lovely, so comforting. They knew me, they shone up at me, they grew for me and now they are gone, all gone.

I am forgotten and nearly gone myself, for I am the last of the scarlet roses, and the pearly ones will live on. May they realize their mistakes - but nonetheless, it is indeed, already too late.