Vile Poem by Azazel Olds

He plucked the rose from the briers and vanished into its beauty grasping the stem firmly, each thorn injecting his veins with a beautiful false reality as his hands begin to be painted red. He cannot let go of this falsifying beauty as the angels wisp him away into this eternal slumber. He watches the sun begin to set as his eyes grow soft and dim with light. Each breath grows limp and weak, struggling to escape his lungs as the crimson water fills them ever so slowly. As he lies down in the grass with a grim smile on his face the poison begins to fade from his mind and into his heart, with one last breath he will curse the rose that appeared so beautiful but revealed so vile.