The bloom of a rare Blue rose

A rare untruth

By lucky or unlucky chance, or by sheer happenstance, there came to me the knowledge of an untruth most hurtful to my gentle heart. The learned truth of your falsehood as concerns the rare blue rose. For the gorgeous and lovely flower that you gave to me comes not by the naturalness of nature, but by means of doctored alchemy.

How can one be as perfect as a blue rose when such beauty comes not of nature herself? For you had somedays ago, told me that the rose and myself were as one, beauty for beauty to me you professed to be true.

For blue roses do not bloom as other roses do, they lack the gene C15H11O7+ born to the petals that renders them not capable of natural growth. Men grow false blue roses thanks to the technology of a dank and false laboratory.

As such facts go, why compare me to the rare blue rose. Does my external self appear fake and my soul false and untrue.

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Beauty and the beast

The blue rose boldly flaunts her youthful petals. Wantonly she reposes upon the mantle, enveloped between a Greek urn and where sheets of the notes you sang stares now unsung at the keys of the chorded keyboard's ebony and cream frozen stare. The rose beams as she dares me crush her beauty to shreds. So we glare at each other, a duel to the death. Does the rose know the depth of my wrath, or of my ponder of the fate of the treacherous nature and soul of that untrue flower.

My memory now returns of how once you told me the story, of a not so long ago, when a secluded garden nestled at the edge of a secret forest bloomed a lovely lone blue rose. Her petals were the color of the sky just before dawn—a never before seen wonder, the soft rare hue that flouted her azure beauty, was the bane of the everyday reds, yellows and others of her floral peers.

By the garden wall, where the forest meets the sky, the wonderous and lovely rose basked beneath the warm rays of the sun, strong, proud, pure...and perfect.

People spoke secretly about the mystery of the flower, though they had never seen the coveted gem. Some thought and dreamed of ethereal deeds, capable of a conjure of ghouls from a bottle or of the heal of broken hearts. Others pooh-poohed the fable as a mere anomaly, a heavenly fancy that had produced a rare beauty between the sea of scarlet roses.

The daughter and the rose

But Belladonna, the young gardener's daughter, knew better. She tended to the blue rose as an ode to love and joy, she nurtured and told bleu rose the secrets of the morn's dew. Each day, she marveled at the stark unwavered beauty, and wondered how such a rare gem had found ways and means to be a part of the floral world.

People tend to muse that plants are not reason based, but when observed, have shown that they are synced to the world around them per the use of the senses.

Plants conversate by way of plant alchemy and a language that plants use to speak to each other. They take the form of (VOCs), compounds that they produce to affect the outer world.

VOCs can be sent out by plants for many reasons - such as tell-tale omens or a hurt, so they may prepare the remedy, or warn each other of threats nearby. Humans can be tuned to these senses or scents too - one can recall the scent of cut grass, for example.

Yet, Belladonna got no such aura from the blue rose, whenever she passed by, a strange absence of serene peace had begun to ensue, as though the soul of the flower was a dark blackened chasm of death.

As the seasons changed, so too the rose. Pre-warmth saw the petals unfurl and capture the sun's glow to azure folds. Summer months made the rose exude a sweet fragrance that made drunk anyone who came near. Autumn brought a deeper shade of blue, as the rose absorbed the melancholy of shedder leaves.

Belladonna's fear of the blue rose grew, and she vowed to protect all from those who sought to enjoy bleu's beauty. She weaved dark legends around the rose, told tall tales of star-crossed lovers and forgotten gods. The townspeople heard and wondered, eyes agog, concerned that Belladonna had grown stark crazy and completely mad. Many a starry-eyed traveler had journeyed from far lands to behold the glory of the rare buds and flower.

The amour

Among the sojourners was a young creator of art, he was aptly named Evergreen. He and Bella had met and enchanted each other, so love-struck, she opened the garden to allow the new amour to see the debatable plant. Star-struck eyes sparked when he saw the blue rose, and Evergreen knew he had found the muse of whom he had searched. He set up easel near the garden gate and captured the flower's essence on canvas. Belladonna watched jealously as he worked, and her heart fluttered with a newfound ache, she longed to touch the spark that he showered so callously upon the blue rose.

Evergreen sketched the rose throughout all the phases—the gentle bud, the full bloom, and even the faded petals. Wonderous brushstrokes revealed the rose's secrets—the covert astronomy etched by mystery, the echoes of forgotten songs bourn by the breeze. The townspeople marveled at the marketed canvases of artwork, and soon, the garden became a sanctuary for dreamers and seekers.

As the cold weather approached, Belladonna noted a change upon the blue rose. The petals began to fade, she lost the proud and statuesque pose. Bella was pleased, she had secret deep hopes that the glamorous rose's charm would be shattered forever. But Evergreen stayed steadfast. He sat by the rose, the sketches transformed to the capture of the tender excellence of the cursed flower.

Treachery revealed

On the eve of the cold season, the blue rose revealed her awful last secret. She shed her petals one by one and her fake heart she exposed. Yet a small baby-blue seedpod could be seen. The rose had endured, a lone seed, as Bella stared at the flower, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Evergreen touched her shoulder gently, "The end always heralds a new and better era". Completely lost to the true reason for the tears, the young man was agog with love. But Belladonna was not happy, and her heart plotted and planned her revenge.

And so, by a pond guarded by a secluded forest garden, where the tops of trees meet the sky, the blue rose and her seedpod lay beneath the earth. Planted by her sandy bosom, was Belladonna's Evergreen, both he and the rose embraced deep below a floral coup de grace of red, yellow, cream, lavender and orange roses, as though the colorful array was a slap to the face of a lone blue rose.

But unknown to Belladonna, below a deeply shaded area on the ground, where a sunbeam sneaked playfully, there, beneath the canopy of green rose leaves, peeked the baby seedpod of a rare blue rose.

From that seedpod, a new blue rose sprouted when flowers begun to bud...a smaller, more mettlesome beauty. The legend of the rare blue rose persevered, passed down through the ages, for no matter what, beauty can emerge from the most unexpected places.

And now here you repose, as you taunt me from my mantle.

The last blue rose.

But not for long!

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