Verbena

Clammy soil for moribund roses. Raindrops drowning fire. Smokily hissing hostility. Leather garments giving no warmth any longer. November.

Flashing skies and rumbling drums,
grassland bowing to the winds,
hailstones born of bergamot,
the heat takes flight, defeated...

A rose. Just a rose. Simple and plain. And shady. And earthy. And dark. And dewy. And musty. And deep-rooted. And strong... and wow!

Once upon a time soft fairy dust trickled down onto dark shady green to turn into crystal clear chimes. Nobody could ever break this spell.

Drops of garnet on velvety petals. A rose glowing dark at night. Guarding those who dream. In black soil. In black silence. In eternity.

Foggy shreds crawl through dark clammy streets. No sunbeam left to pierce the November grey. Retreat, for time has stopped until Spring.

Waxen withering roses. Ivy claws clinging to clammy ruins. Candles flameless now, leaving no spark of life. A tomb clad in a veil of rain.

Wind and waves. Wandering clouds. A quiet lighthouse. A steaming teapot. White sails and a blue horizon. A heart longing for distant shores.

Colourless, powerless, lifeless we appeared to them. Cloyingly gray, sickly and weak. Palefaces they called us...

Smoky oil. Hot metal shards. Assembly lines, print rolls, greasy pinions. Feeding the punch-clock. Industry sketched in black and white.