In a far away land of ice and snow, there is a rose. This rose is like no other rose. Its petals are the pearly white of the moon. The low bush it grows from is as black as a starless night. The huge needle-sharp thorns that grow from its branches fade from that midnight black to navy to violet to blood red at its deadly point. The whole plant is a thing of mysterious, confusing, unknown beauty.
But just now, at this very moment, a petal has fallen. The glowing silky petal silently falls to the flat snow covered ground. Another falls. And another. Then all the rest fall at once except for one trembling petal that's slowly weakening.
A light wind blows across the icey land, scattering the rose petals on the ground. The lonely petal has given one violet shake. But now it gives up. It floats off on the breeze, following its brethren off into the barren land where they'll shrivel up and die alone.
The bush cannot survive without its precious pearl rose, its heart and life. It's left by itself. It's slowly perishing. Its thorns' color fades to the black of the branches. The black of the branches looses its mysterious shine, now dull and depressing. This new black color lightens to a boring, ugly gray. The smoothness of the branches gives way to dryness and wrinkles. The branches begin to curl back, whitening and crumbling. Now all that's left is a crumpled, wrinkled, white ball of bark, attached to the ground by a weak, thin root. The wind blows again, light but constant. The root cracks.
Now, what's left of that stunning, breath-taking rose bush rolls around that far away land of ice and snow.
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