Roses with a flame

Through the garden she walks, a lovely girl. 

But the wind insists on making her hair a mess.

Roses fill each row of the cobblestone paths between the roses.

As she walks by in a rose-colored sun dress.

Down below in the roses run rats.

Rats attack birds without an ounce of shame.

No cats can be seen in the garden today.

All the dogs are in the center, watching a wicked flame.

She walks along the cobblestone, turning quickly to the right.

She has a basket in her hands.

This woman fails to notice the fire.

How can she see it as it slowly expands?

Through the path she walks, and sniffs the air.

It's roses . . . and smoke.

She gets to the garden's wall and stops, for there are the best roses.

Down she reached, daintily, sweetly, to capture a rose.  At her touch, it suddenly broke.

The rose crumbled into dust in her hand. 

So she snatched a few more, ignoring the sight.

Until the torn she ignores forces her to look, with a jolt.

These roses are wilting, crumbling, devastated by blight.

There is no beauty here, there is no joy or sweetness.

Only destruction of what should be full of beauty.

Down below, are the worms, and the rats, crawling through.

She stomps one, and more roses decay and collapse, cruelly.

The thorn makes her bleed.

Her blood waters the garden, providing new life: 

Fleurs du mal sprout from the touch of her blood.

These white flowers sprout vines, who reach out and capture this young wife.

Birds fly away, and she tries to reach them.

They see her, and rise, staying out out of her reach.

The dogs run from the garden, trampling roses on their way out.

And the rats gather around her, searching for a breach.

Wind blows through the air, turning more roses to powder.

And fanning the flame, in its violent rage.

The birds scatter, and the dogs are trapped within the garden's closed gates.

And the rats disappear, fading like mist, as the woman meets the garden's flames . . .