A scale stands in the centre,
Either side equal in weight.
One pan lays ivory roses.
Fresh, silky,
pure.
The second pan is rusting,
in pain.
Decaying roses lay crumbling.
Withered, brittle,
tarnished,
Once white as snow.
Yet,
the scale stays balanced.
Within the white feathers
came grey and tainted barbs.
Within the spring daisies
came rotting roots and shrivelled petals.
Within the light of this world
came the gloom and dimness.
It rains,
and the sunshine comes after.
As the grave is placed,
sweet lavender blossom from the ground.
Atlas can’t change,
revolve
around the pure.
It has to be accepted;
Faced and loved.
The bad.
The sin.
The hate.
The world has flaws and perfections,
never meant to be untainted.
It was an equal scale,
held by roses.
Withered and ivory.
Anonymous
