Petal after petal, are picked from the stem, leaving nothing but some sharp, bitter thorns.

Silky soft petals, so bright and vibrant, litter the ground, turning old and withering away.

The thorns that remain keep all at a distance but were unable to stop the petals from being plucked, like an unwanted hair from a chin.

The thorn cuts and a droplet of blood appears, like a tear from a heart that has been speared. As the blood drains, a fascination remains, captivating almost enchanting.

The barren stem begins to shrivel, the thorns unable to sustain it.

Soon what was once a beautiful flower will be no more, gone forever, forgotten, cast upon the floor.

By: Beverly Beekmans (2010)