Sunday, 13 December 2015


There was a forest. dark. forbidding and extremely familiar.
Fringes of burnt roses grew in one corner of forgotten weeded shrubbery almost like my grade V haircut, accidental fringes.
I did not feel pretty at all for eternity. 

But thats not the point. The story is of this forest, whose “weed-en” frames had solemn pictures of these burnt roses, never smiling. The paint of spring had worn off and an infinite potion of summer had been lost somewhere in the dark. It was a small vial of infinite beauty. Tinged by sunlight and cradled in its warmth.

Now, the roses were burnt. scared of autumn.
They wanted to wither away.
Death was poetical but not poetical when endured in excruciating pain and the disappointment of a boon succumbing to an accidental loss of the blessing in the mad frenzy of one intoxicating summer day.

But the forest had them prisoner.
They were thorny frames of timeless beauty.
Solace from the loneliness when the entirety of its being betrayed him in hibernation.
It would stare at them for hours, occasionally persuading a breeze to caress them just to hear their young giggles that grew into laughter and echoed like ripples of sexual tension through his body. The trees would shiver with want and the streams gurgle out moans of pleasure.

The forest would make advances as a doting lover by coaxing the blue birds to fly in from one corner to the other crooning away flirty love songs to the roses. He could never decide which flower pleased him the most.
The daisies with their innocent naive smiles or the water lilies with their pure conscience..
He loved them all.
But he lusted for the royalty. The roses.
The red attracted him in a way that was heart wrenching. He would be left breathless by the red, the slow decent of dew from each petal mirroring his green as if he could touch them through the dew.
He dreamt of lovers camping in his kingdom and remembered the intertwined silhouettes making strange patterns in their shadowy forms against the warm fire.
The fire burnt him a little, left a few scars but so did the roses with their teasing seduction.
He was madly in lust for them roses. But through peaks and occasional stares.
He loved it when it rained.
He imagined each raindrop drenching every part of the roses, the soft petals, the young buds….
He would crave to touch them the way the rain did. He wanted to draw sweetness from their core and caress the red tresses that haunted his nights to a tired morning that brought no peace. The lust simply grew.. and grew to an extent that he wanted to possess them no matter what.

So he framed them.
He knew already that the winters would paint them white.
But he also knew of a beautiful nightingale who would colour them red again, singing all night of love till every drop of blood from its little breast had made beautiful his roses..
It was this that he lusted for.
The smell of fresh blood from a singing nightingale’s little breast painting his dear roses red again.
The blood poured out in love invoked in him the best kind of lust.

One day when fancy made storms out of wishes.
His wish would come true too.
And maybe then he would lick the red off the roses and taste his own lust and make love to forbidden lust.

One day.
One day…