The Wanderer

Wandering still
His desert wasteland
His rose in hand
Funny thing
It should be shriveled by now
Having been cut from its source for so long
But it’s only a bit faded
A duller red than its original rich shade
He wonders again why he plucked the rose
It was that single sniff that did him in
And the next one
And the one after

Wandering still
His grey wasteland
His rose in hand
Curious thing
Its thorns are growing back
Not slowly
Not steadily
But sporadically
Today, one here
Tomorrow, one there
Another day, they’re gone
He’s got nicks and cuts from all that activity
Then it stops for a while
Suspiciously, he eyes the rose

Wandering still
His endless wasteland
The rose in hand
Bloody thing
Slices his hand open
He throws it down in a frenzy to suck at his wound
He stares at the rose
Sees his blood on its treacherous thorns
New thorns that had grown so suddenly
He didn’t notice them before
Why on Earth did he pluck this rose

He wasn’t touching it anymore
The sands could have it
As he turned to continue his journey
He murmured under his breath:
“Bloody rose”

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