The Dying Poet's Dream

Heartbeat

(A/N: Possible trigger warning, possible allusions to s**ual a**ault and r*pe; read at your own discretion.)

Tiny little white men dance around the red bush,

Their knives diving into the bush, 

The bush wails and attempts to push the knives out

But to no avail.

The white men laugh and stab the bush again,

The bush hardening and hiding its roses.

The white men cry, they sob, they beat the bush for entrance

But no entrance will come.

Within the bush, buds start to form,

Inside, little buds begin to shiver...

The white men give up, they wait, they sit, groaning.

A woman in red approaches them, black gloves on her hands.

There is an entrance that only she can see,

Where the buds hide from the bees.

The bush allows her entrance,

Allowing the woman to rip the buds from within to without.

The white men wail, their precious buds dying on the ground.

No roses will be found

This summer.

The woman ignores the cries,

Ignores the knives

Stabbing into her,

Her skin hardens

As she rips the buds one by one.

The bush begins to open itself once again,

And the little red men

Rejoice and run to stab it once more

But their knives are deflected by the woman in red.

Next thing you know, the little white men are dead.

The woman in red killed them,

The woman in red smiled,

The woman in red spoke to the bush:

"Oh how they have used you,

How they stabbed you,

How they claimed you as theirs and theirs alone.

But you are mine, I am yours.

You did not choose this life or any other.

You will not be claimed by any man,

Not even your brother.

The buds within you were not alive, so do not fret,

You cannot take what isn't set."

The bush softened, it hummed, 

It rejoiced in its freedom.

Years later, it decided to bloom.

Not from the wounds

Of foolish white men

Stabbing and proclaiming,

But of her own accord,

Her own decision,

Her own little white men.