The Standing Rose

As an attempt at creativity, Virgil has written a poem with several personalities, inspired by a poem of Poe's, 'The Bells'.

Life is vibrant,
a rose flowering before you,
the sky clean and blue -
Go on, then: sniff it,
may your nose and its fresh scent engage.
Your eyes alight, a smile spreads about your face;
The chorous rejoices - a melodious drone,
and as it fades, the drone asserts its prominence:
it fills your ears, louder, louder,
eardrums pounding - eyes crossing:
as the hundred stings of a bee's angry mob come upon you.
And black overcomes.

Life is depleted.
Your skin is littered with rounded red sores,
punctured with small needles,
and the swarm lay dead about you.
You peer at the rose, far above the mortified mob.
Its petals are the red of blood,
its stamen in the wind sway,
concealing thier deceit with a mask of innocense.
Clouds shift in the sky's dull blue, the gay orb of above hidden.
And you itch, you bleed.
Blood and its red unite.
The rose soaks it in -
its xylum and floam drinking the liquid of life itself.
And sleep overcomes.

Life is no longer.
Your lids part, and see the sky:
lifeless, leaden.
The air is heavy. Rain falls.
It stings your wonds. They itch.
You scratch, you violently scratch,
the dots swell, and bleed.
You see the dead rose, lying amongst the bees.
You reach for it, pick it up -
but the rose rejects you: pricking your finger, blood welling.
The rose falls to the ground, drops of blood beside it.
The ground soaks in the red juices greedily.
And sprouts a new rose.