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.