• He sits in a rose garden.
    Near the center where nothing grows.
    Hedged and preened.
    The garden glows.
    Water dribbling down the fountain he leans against.
    Specks hitting his face and mocking his tightly drawn grimace.
    Sprawled in a careless fashion.
    He breathes in the sweet smell and holds it in his lungs for as long as he can.
    Eyes rolling to the back of his head
    He lets out a soft moan that dies to a whimper.
    Exhales.
    Eyes snap open.
    The fountain seems to have played tricks with his sight.
    Looking down at his fist slightly above the slowly tainting water.
    He draws it to his nose.
    Breathing in the soul of the single rose clasped tightly in his grip.
    Everything is much more real than the garden.
    Dripping down his elbow.
    Stain his worn out trousers and mar the harsh stone under his bare feet.
    The Rose
    The only flower that he saw
    The only one that saw him.
    It dies even now.
    His blood, not what it needs.
    Not what it cares for.
    He grips it tighter.
    Digging the thorns in deeper.
    Unwilling to part with feeling.
    He brushes the petals under his nose.
    Their softness caressing his flesh and tearing through his mind.
    The Rose.
    He can't see it anymore.
    It doesn't bare its soul for him.
    No longer yielding a scent.

    It never did.
    His hand drops back to the fountain.
    Empty.
    To the untainted water below.
    The surface and stone: pristine.
    A merry breeze blows through the garden
    And various wind chimes laugh with each other.
    The fountain plays its tricks again.
    And all he can say.
    Is "Good luck."