Rose bush ashes

A broken heart? No. But a heart bent on revenge. A fire burning deep, scorching all in its path. In its wake ashes and smoke the smouldering remains of vengeance the sweet taste of victory. But what victory? What victor rejoices the loss of innocence? The loss of their soul? A bitter pill to swallow one that does not numb the pain but magnifies it until all that’s left is a scar, a reminder of what used to be.

But alas, out of the fire life emerges. Weak at first but life nonetheless, a struggling shoot finding its way to the sunlight. Not all hope is lost but none is preserved either. Of such life what is expected? Having had to fend for itself on scorched earth and ashes a product of betrayal, vengeance and heart ache. To such no tenderness remains, hard as the earth it emerged from always wary. The price to be paid a constant reminder of pain and anger of anguish and lamentation. Young and green are deceptive traits, this new life too has an agenda to protect. Like a rose bush pretty but deadly poisoned thorns. It waits for its next victim luring her by the sweet smells the beauty of ‘love’. Woe unto the one that falls in the stings, the screams penance for a future generation perhaps.

All that is left is to wait. Time, the magic healer of all wounds or the tormenter of the tormented. Whatever way it goes whatever way it plays out.

It aint a thing


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