I have heard word of a garden filled with roses. Some say these roses make this garden just as beautiful as the Garden of Eden. I’d say not, though. This garden is far more beautiful. Just touch the roses as you will see. You’ll feel the rose’s poison seep into your veins, and it will all be over. There’s no pain. And so you see, this garden keeps itself watered and fed, by the fools who enter and drop dead.
Now all this death may distance the weak hearted. But you see, human curiosity is a powerful thing, so no wonder so many never leave this garden.
Now you seem smart, let’s see if you live, and remember, don’t touch the roses.
So as you enter this garden you feel in a trace. The white and red roses dot the whole entrance.
But you still remember the warning, don’t dare touch the roses. So you continue on your way, weaving in and out of hedges that beg you to stay. But listen to their begs, you do not, and you continue on your way.
With what seems a long while, you’re tired and your mind is fragile, so you decide to sit a while. You’re sure not to touch the roses, as you sit within this enclosed hedge of said roses. After sitting a while, you hear cries coming from not but a few twists and turns away.
So you race and race and come upon a large rose bush, a woman lying on the ground, and as you reach down to help her, you hear a sound. The rose bush says it can help the girl, but it just needs a little blood. So you reach down and touch the ground and scrape a rose thorn against your hand. The woman awakes and she shakes and she shakes, but she doesn’t seem very grateful. Now you see, as you look around, nothing but thorns and roses. Then you see your old body sprawled out across the ground.
It seems you have become what you were told not to touch, isn’t irony a beautiful thing?