Monday, September 29, 2014
from white to darkest pink.
The green of its leaves
was a shadowed emerald
with no glint or shine
but perfect all the same.
It was in the middle of its bloom,
open and beautiful,
but with the lingering promise of more.
Her skin ranged
from white to palest peach,
as smooth as porcelain
or unblemished stone.
Her nails were unpainted
but still glistened in the light,
barely distinguishable from her skin.
Her touch, alone, appeared warm,
like the promise of a caress.
Together each distracted the viewer from the other.
The eye wandered from pink to peach to green and back,
unable to focus or keep still.
The black sleeve, velvet, faded unless focused upon.
Yet the rose made Rose's hand look like wax,
While Rose's hand made the rose look like silk.
And both false in their beauty.