Now I am ready to confront love. What is it but the hue so dreamy, framed by lights and lack of light to complete each delicate petal?
The outermost petal threatened to fall, my muse drifted in the wind, hanging by a tangent. Despite the tug and pull, the hopes and hurts, I know the outer shells would go only when the most tender heart is ready to face the world.
My love is also a rose that time my curse, though opposite: for when the last petal struck the floor I shall be liberated, strengthened since even the unrequited pains cannot quiver in the wind and is no more.
Treachery of Imageries 