reaper
It is not his garden.
The space inside the glass is airy; humid.
Jewelled fronds grasp for the aurorae. Beneath heavy boughs dwell reedier stock, developing, children peeking from mothers' skirts--not yet fit to fruit, and thus no use for the Palace kitchens.
Not yet. Come harvest, all will play their role.
Light as a sunbeam, his fingers seize upon an errant stalk. Twists, pulls, snaps--ichor soaks his sleeve. Weeds, tossed aside.
"Time to go, A."
A straightens from the hunch. The lone speck of green sways back into place, protruding from between charcoal-black beams.
Life unquenchable amidst the desolation, grown
too familiar.
milr (man i love rose)