One instantly holds my gaze,
with enchanting beauty and pleasant aroma,
yet I glance away before its spell overpowers me,
for I know of the hollow, empty essence.
Another shrinks away from me,
the petals are closed tight shut.
I grow uneasy just imagining
and a shudder moves down my spine.
The third looms a blood red hue,
coated in spikes and angry thorns,
it fills me with vehemence and jealousy
but still I repel the itch to stare it down.
Growing tall above the rest,
the last glows with a blinding visceral light
radiating comfort and warmth.
I know my attenuated quest is over.
I reach out to collect this beauty.
Pain! A spasm echoes through my spirit
as an unseen thorn bites deep into my finger
and warm blood trickles into my hand.
I cry out and withdraw my hand back.
Agony streams through my soul
and my heartbeat accelerates
as I examine the open wound.
Gone! I look up to see the flower vanished.
I wonder was it really there,
was it just all an illusory dream
and an substance of the imagination?
No, for the pain is undeniable,
and even though the flower has gone
the hurt still remains,
and shall always remain.
Mark Snellgrove
8 July 1996