The Black Rose

As the early morning mist cleared the valley, the luminous, gracious sun rose to her duty, watching over her children, as roses of red leap high towards her, like baby chicks feeding from their mothers’ beak. The roses smile in the light, cheerful as chimps, as high as can be, waving to all the busy bees that pass by and flicker on a motor way. All but a single black rose; segregated from the red tipped lips. I squander down low with horrendous posture, shrieking from the impending rays of the sun in the shadows of the single old oak; feeling cold, lonely and rejected.
Mid-morning arrives and makes happy the skies. I peek up from my grassy domain, pondering the skies of blue and grey, noticing the flock of birds soaring above in a V-formation. “Oh how beautiful and majestic do the hawks fly?” I turn to face the roses of my kind, only realising that there was nothing but emptiness that surrounds…
Trembling with vivacious fear, the type of fear that made the hair follicles of my stem prick out suddenly; I shivered away quietly. Away from the advancing dark, fluffy and voluptuous ghost, as it traversed the rolling green hills pushing itself in my direction. It devoured the warm, orange tinge of light that livened the fields, into nothing but, a cold, barren wasteland. Digested in its wake!
Unexpectedly, a drop of wet, clear liquid had plunged onto my meek leaf. It oozes along the meek leaflet off the edge down into the pits of the earth. PITTER. PATTER. PITTER. PATTER. The first barrage of enemy drops had made its attack, engrossing all that stood tall. Even the rude roses, who sweated in the sun for life, could not withstand this carnage.
It was not long after, that the faceless red roses that had excluded me from the sun bathing, twisted their soaked petal heads. Staring up at me, a black rose; dry as a desert under the coarsened branches of the monstrous, old oak tree. Instantly I had experienced a sense of worthiness and connection to the leather-brown tree