Plague Of Roses
It started simply enough, as all things do, with a hippy friend purchasing a single rose that she laid upon the table. And while hippies danced the way hippies dance (a strange sight to see, I really must say), this single rose found its way into my hand. I was chastised by friends when they returned and found me sitting with eyes closed to mere slits and this single rose just brushing my lips and pressed firmly to my nose.
I sheepishly took the admonishment from the macho masses and did my best to explain how the scent of a thing can draw out memories and visions that normal brain activity usually ignores. I went on to advise of how there is more beauty in dead roses than there are in live ones. The round robin of naysayer's did little to sway me from my path and the looks of astonished comprehension were the reward for my resolve. Of course even comprehension didn�t stop anyone from telling me I was certifiable and even one soul dared to boldly state that beauty in death was, �like SO wrong�.
Much later I sat staring longingly out a window of a car I didn�t want to be in. I did my best to feign interest and was constantly distracted by roadside signs advertising of all things, roses at Christmas time. Only in the desert.
Later still as I swam with sirens on the �holiest� of nights, I found a black leather bodice with large cream colored breasts suddenly within inches of my eyes. Pinned off to the side in mocking defiance was a single white rose. Over the pounding of bass drums and the screams of the tragically hip, I grabbed my vision and screamed to her, �what does it mean?� Apparently such cryptic terminology was lost on her; the only answer that was forthcoming was a peck on the cheek and a drink pressed into my hand before the place swallowed her.
And finally today, I awake and bat frantically at the device that was wailing next to my head as it pulled me from a slumber I did not wish to wake from. Eyes still closed I inhaled deeply wishing the visions would be true and that the sickly sweet scent would still linger, but finding no solace that the petals of roses and the lover that was covered in them was not really there.
The scent and the vision still lingering, I wipe the sandman�s handiwork from my eyes and with nothing more than a few clicks I find I�m not the only one that has been dreaming
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