Florabunda - Raspberry royale, how your radiance rose from the cracks from the weight of life's agonizing burden, I'm not certain. You hold yourself up so confidently in the shadows of altitudinous argentine buildings, without radiancy from Helios. Yet, Selene, the sickle silver deity in the sky watches over you at night from afar.
Your thorns are bountiful and tightly bound around your fragile quintessence. Each afflictive component is ripe with a thick noxious poison, concealing the deep imperfections of yesterday.
Those who have been emersed in a taste of your exquisite effervescence have seen how you delicately grasp your precious ochre petals.
You're afraid of showing exhaustion from carrying those carminic cashmere collections so tightly. Those who have stepped too close have been subject to punctures that have caused archaic ichor to cascade upon your pavement, fringing your delicate blushed opaqueness.
You watch as your toxins embrace those who love you.
Your agonising liquor, intoxicating but sanguineous in nature.
Alone again my Raspberry Royale.
I will watch as you lose grip of your velvet pillows and they collapse under your governance, and the silver deity in the sky finally abandons you.
Your stem is a frosty cenotaph, you don't even bleed anymore.
Why are you still here Raspberry Royale?
It wouldn't be a sacrilege to remove you from the sidewalk.
You will never be floribunda Raspberry Royale, a fearsome sovereign of Venus - watered by Aphrodite's tears and nourished by the blood of Adonis.
Why would anyone want you in their garden, Raspberry Royale?
You lose sovereignty each time those scarlet petals wilt.
So let the sickle moon gaze upon your crimson cashmere and adore you while it still can.
Cotton alabaster canvas, I studied your artist's staining and delicate corruption on what was once your chaste snow-white wasteland.
I have gazed upon the abstract acrylic impasto thatched upon your delicate bone.
Robust pigments of sanguine, cerulean blue and plum cast across your ivory canvas with confined stipples of forsythia blossom.
I have traced those deep ravines across you, each one dripping with scarlet melancholy that your artist inflicts upon you.
I watched as they violently carved divots into your wonderful impasto like a lustful bow to a violin.
I gazed upon a symphony of vermilion that saturated your cotton frame, gushing onto the floorboards and soaking into the timber. The artist showed no mercy cutting into your exquisite impasto architecture like a passionate music conductor.
When I moved closer, I could see the fear and melancholy behind their eyes as they violently slashed deep ravines into you long orchestrated lines.
