The Eastern Sun rises,

refreshing the petals of

a distinct silhouette.

A common field of birth,

the pains of creation,

shaped by opening buds.

The lingering fragrance of

beauty fills the air, as each

endures their ends near.

Enriched with life,

the ground absorbs what

amniotic fluid has yet to dry.

The failing sight of third eyes

perceives life, not the utterly

vicious cycle retraced for

the populous, by fragrant

scent changers.

Decay is what their future

dictates, and each of them

gives their best, hiding any

deformities history has made

manifest.

The enormity of their ambiance

is set by their perfume,

The absolute feminine.

Waiting, never seizing,

waiting to be picked, propped

upright, placed in the newly

formed vase of the aged.

A container, a vessel passed

down throughout the generations,

the centuries.

Now the living arrangements,

the social concepts are set.

A meager conversation piece,

a lasting assembled accent to

assuage people into comfort,

not outrage.

The scent lingers, neither

over powering, or weak.

Just a perfect rose delineated

from it’s profound Sangreal.

The continuous pattern of the

perfect feminine.