What I see is a budding rose. I walk toward it with a gently protruding, but all too obvious, nonetheless, Interest.
What I touch turns to gold And shines iridescent and without contempt. It revels in its own glory and carries life on its wings Until a gentle reminder brings it back to solid Ground.
What I hold onto turns to ash, scattering in the silky wind and returning to a mediocre state In which to pretend No innocence was lost.