The Iron Rose

An iron rose is unlike a real rose in that it's ever lasting, there is no decay but there is also nothing growing, it's frozen and lifeless. Everything around me constructed by passed souls, even in ideas, my words and expression, none of it will ever be my own. When did any of it get here, walking down the street I'm surrounded by buildings that ooze in detail, with the essence of lost ideas. It's all iron roses. My mind rushed with knowledge of that essence, it's so beautiful and complex. Selfishly, I don't want it to end, so sealing its essence into an idea is the only fair thing to do, before it decays into something I don't care for anymore. My minds now overwhelmed, unsure how I feel, for a while I enact my boundless presence, knowing what came before will become my after I scream and run and dance. Eventually however, The Iron Rose ends and I begin to forget about what's actually inside it all, I start to let it exist as it is to pure perception, flowers are colours and shapes, lovers are tools for pleasure and death doesn't exist.