The war was done. The battlefield once filled with fighting is now emptied and clear. The war's toll left for the naked eye to see and at most, dread. That is except for a single rose placed in the middle of the blood-soaked grass. Its pedals were a pale white which were left open leaving the dusty, trampled field behind. It was almost taunting to see such life in a place used for destruction. The boastful rose possessed sharp, black thorns on its dark green stem which sprouted so naturally in such a depleted area. Was it protection? Was it a flaw of fear? No. Maybe? Only the rose possesses such knowledge.
With each dust cloud that blows in the hollowed breeze, the rose glows brighter. With each crumple and tremble of grass, the rose stood tall. There was envy. There was admiration. But there will always be the toll of war somewhere inside this rose. This single, pale rose.
(My reattempt at a request a good friend made. I hope you enjoy!)
