I see it through shattered windows lain bare, the glass still sharp and reflecting a light. The stained glass of yesteryear's beauty still. Even on the ground, so scattered away. I can't help but look at it's beauty now. A moment in time, a fleeting time; Something permanent, then fleeting, then gone. Something from my memory still does sting. LIkened to artpiece that no one can touch, a danger to themselves as to it now, these memories are left in rain and snow, the fear of getting cut, to damage it; persisting even after it's own day. A scar from the past fading quick away.

This beauty which somehow still contained, inside of this artpiece left unnamed, on the ground of our palace's stone wall, our traumas, our tears, now left to it all. There's beauty in that, this sadistic love, this heart broken love which we cannot touch. There's beauty in that, the glass left untouched, a perfect darling until we crush it. Our hands in that moment bloody and gored. Only in that moment does the scar heal.

This rose made of red glass, it has a scent, a feeling, a shape, a mockery of. This rose made of glass, if left still unplucked, will be dyed red, in our blood, once again. The moment of undoing, to repair. Perhaps easier to take a picture, then pretend that it was not still there, until we trip, and fall. It is still there.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Then what do we do with bloodied roses? What do we do with failed love gone awry? What do we do with circumstance shattered? Just stop and pretend that it not mattered?

No, instead, like any other rose (glass); we smell it, love it, cherish the faint thing. Then we let it wilt with grace, in our face, bitter sweet tears from both joy and the pain, knowing that it mattered, it was once good, knowing that it was never in vain. The hall is spotless, but never the same.

We have changed, they have changed, this rose of ours. The pain of it, pain of the lack of it; perhaps they both mean that it was once real. It's hard to know how to feel, barren wall. Still drenched in our blood and pitcher water.

It is dyed red, but that's the beauty still, the scars left on our hands tell us it was. Perhaps another day, we'll wipe the wall, then treat the next art piece more carefully.

Perhaps another day, when time, it blooms. A different flower, a new small hope. Perhaps another day, it will then bloom.

Until then, treat it gently, this hall bare. Clean it up, as slow as you'd like, blood slows.

And one day, you won't cry again I'm sure.