Transcendentalist Romance: Scent of a Putrid Flower

Dear sweet and putrid Flower

I find myself riveted by your solitude.

And there is no better method for passing the day

In this jail-cell we call freedom

Than contemplating your petals red as blood

Whose dye swiftly smeared across the veins of my liberal heart.

You are aware of my confinement, and I welcome it so

Just as I have welcomed my dear father, with a riveting glow.

Flower, poor dear

Rebellious and so battered

To be plucked and swept off the soils

That have hindered your growth.

I find it ideal and you would gladly welcome

My own putrid aroma of dying roses.

And though you are a conflicted soul,

You speak the truth of a million voices

When you whisper the wise words

Of a soul as old as the setting Sun,

“There is only one path to Heaven.

On Earth, we call it Love.”*

* Goldman, Karen. (2/21/2015). “Love.”