Sometimes I wonder if the rose on the other side ever feels lonely. With how much I scream and shout, it will never hear me.

The way this glass box surrounds me, I can feel the oxygen escaping my lungs. But there is no door or window for me to leave.

The rose is just so close to my grasp yet behind the invisible wall. It looks so lovely as it withers from the changing seasons.

But at last, the hole in my being can not be complete. The taste of freedom so close to my touch. Yet I am denied its gentle kisses.

The pain of having my soul ripped to pieces has never left as the sun and moon share the passage of time. Fabrics of my cosmos’ still unhealed from the loss of stars.

A simple rose teasing the glass. It looks so inviting as its blood red colors shine under the teardrops of the rain.

The rainbow that glimmers in my cage leaves such a child like wonder. The same wonder that refuses to die as my flesh grows with age.

A body that’s broken into pieces. That this glass room has kept it together. As the storm rage on, the rose still stands tall.

Even when the bush no longer bares any other flower. This one rose still stays with me.

As the butterflies visits for its meal, it leaves so soon. And as I scream for their return the rain begins anew.