And at the end,
and in his solitude,
he held the last one in
gnarled old hands.
His dues long paid,
his sadness long lived.
One rose,
red as blood,
bright as anger.
The others
by his side?
Useless, pointless,
unshared wisdom,
not even given the option
to go unheeded.
The clouds gathered overhead,
and within his mind,
and shrouded his heart.
He waited for the falling rain,
accepting his fate.
He waited for the falling rain
to drown the roses,
dissolve the regret,
and forever
seal the silent scream of wisdom
inside.
Beyond Panic 