When a rose wilts, not much can save it. It will begin shedding its vibrancy, its color lost to the past. When a rose wilts, it bows its head. No longer does it view the expansive skies above, it only sees the unforgiving ground. When a rose wilts, the flush drains from its cheeks and its supple youthful petals give way to elderly creases and dryness. Darkness spreads from the heart of the petals to the stem. Darkness pervades all. Only the very beginning of the stem is spared, its light green persistent and obdurate. The bright light green of beginnings, of sweet, tender hope, of memories yet to be tarnished. Of a more beautiful past.
The petals harden into a dark clump atop a black stem. All the leaves have fallen off now, already departed. Only the rose remains, its head bowed lower than ever, staring down at the cold, dark ground of its inevitable fate, yet unwilling to let go. Knowing its demise will come, yet still so stubbornly pretending to be alive and well. And so it freezes – trapped in time, suspended in the air by an unbreakable stem. The world around it is moving, changing, yet it stays there still, silent, entrapped, a mirage of life.
This is what happens when a rose wilts.
but its soul is already gone.