The Man Who Plucked The Rose

“Well you only need the light when it’s burning low
Only miss the sun when it starts to snow
Only know you love her when you let her go
Only know you’ve been high when you’re feeling low
Only hate the road when you’re missin’ home
Only know you love her when you let her go
And you let her go”
Passenger “Let Her Go”
* * *
Each step careless, nonchalant
Picks up dust as he goes
Feet weighs heavier than his soul
Soul weighs down his feet
The sun weighs heavier than both
Oppressive with fiery pride
The air solid around him
Wrapping him in too warm an embrace
He wanders this desert wasteland
Sparsely dotted with oases of hope
He wanders this gray wasteland
Searching for an explosion of colour
An anomalous expression of nature
He wanders this endless wasteland
‘Till he stumbles into a meadow
Vibrant with a thousand hues
* * *
“I promise that I know you very well
Your eyes never lie, even if they tell
Sweet lullabies that come with a smell
Of a dozen roses flipping down the green hill”
Kendrick Lamar “Real”
* * *
He sits at the base of an Iroko
And savours it’s cool eternal shade
The valley beneath overpopulated
Its floor littered with countless petals
From each flower’s ritual ecdysis
The cool permeating his every fibre
Restoring him a sense of tranquillity
Moist red earth beneath him
A petrichor tinged with a pinch of blood
Slowly the idyllic view bores him
He realises he misses the sun
The heat, the travails of journey
One last view as he stands to leave
A flash of brilliant bright red
The Rose finally unfurls its petals
Time comes to a momentary pause
A flowery seduction of immortal will
He plucks the rose from its thorny bush
Each prick robbing him of desire
Poisonous Venom like an adrenaline burst
He takes a sniff and gets addicted
Time resumes its indefinite course
* * *
“Runaway, runaway, runaway, runaway
I’m holding on desperately
Runaway, runaway, runaway, runaway
I’m holding on”
J. Cole “Runaway”
* * *
He wanders this desert wasteland
Missing the rain, the shade, the oases
He wanders this gray wasteland
And wonders if the rose wants the journey
Stops and wonders why he plucked it
He takes another sniff
He wanders this endless wasteland…


The Rose

A thorny rose
In the undergrowth
Of a sacred Iroko
Standing on a hill
By circumstance
But loving the
Shade provided
With the blood
Of sacrifices at
The Iroko root
By flower’s virtue
And nature’s
Glorious kiss
By illusionary Thorns
Dripping the Poison
Of intelligence

A thorny rose
Sits beside
A bushpath
Leading to the
Sacred Iroko’s root
Watches as
The other flowers
In Valley’s meadow
Get plucked away
Notices some
Return deflowered
Just to get
Plucked again
Knows that
A kindred spirit
Will one day
Risk the thorns
Waits for
The man
Who plucked
The rose


“With my closing eyes… I see?
With my beating heart… I feel?
With my thinking mind… I be?
With my living soul… I’m free.”

. . .
I feel…
. . .
I feel an angel’s weight on each shoulder. Watching. Recording.
I feel my aura pulse. Deceitful. Repulsive.
I feel my thoughts wander. Curious. Untravelled.
I feel her love within. Pure. Conditional.
I feel my sanity slip. Madness. Darkness.
I feel sick. Fever. Insane.
I feel time slow. Friction. Inertia.
I feel death’s knock. Loud. Seductive.
I feel the pill finally kick-in. Slow. Certain.
I feel antidepressed.
. . .
Nerve endings in my skin
Sensitive to stimuli
Sense organs give you perception
Giving this abstraction called life
A solidity we call reality
The brain is the seat of emotion
But life weighs most heavily
On our beating hearts keeping us alive