Bullrush

The Mother of Roses was once more successful.

Out from fresh gravesoil a flower did bloom, and dragged himself forth, out from the garden and into the light.

---

How very like mother he is.
You can see him, you are certain. You see his smile... smiles? His roses, their thorns... his thorns. But you cannot put each and every thing together. You cannot see the whole.
Your mind swims when you try. You feel dizzy, nauseated... inebriated.

But his voice is so warm, so kind. Comforting.

Welcoming.

You want nothing more than to fall into his embrace, to let him hold you. To let the flowers and thorns take root for all eternity.

Is something wrong? You are frightened.

You are...

so tired.