He gazed adoringly at the blossoming wild flower. His glaze lingered over the budding form, taking in the vibrant colour and admiring the dainty and distinct formation of its petals. He wondered how such a thing of beauty could grow amidst the wild and untamed thorny landscape.
He longed to reach out and touch the flower, to hold it in his hands and to possess the thing of beauty for just a few moments. His desire to immortalise the flower and contain it forever gaining increased lustful urgency.
He reached out his hand to pluck the flower. Caught in his reverie imagining the crisp snap of the picking and the enchanting scent of it’s sweet pollen. However his large hands were clumsy and as he grasped the stem, the flower crumbled and it’s beauty forever marred. Ripped away from it’s roots and with several fallen petals, he gasped quietly and with sadness in his throat he dropped the flower in the dirt, regretting not taking heed the fragility of beauty.

02 july 2009 @ 15:00 – k.

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Muse of epic poetry. Mother Metatron. Contemporary teacher of humanity and art.

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