Failed Garden of God

The first cut of roses are in bloom and I will see them soon, very soon. They float in a bowl of Arctic ice-flow; regarded highly by the local Wal-Mart feng shui masters. Made to hang and share the air with antebellum paintings of imagination mansions; holding common court, side by side, with ancient saints of former papal dynasties. The sweet scent of first bloom perfume, exaggerated in all three, becomes, too soon, disguised, sour, funerary aromas of terminus musk. Can these murdered roses face rage from the pastel haze of entryway Nirvana? When contradiction changes or disintegrates thought, immutable miracles might be imbued beyond the common wrought. You attained an interdiction of proportional catastrophes which indirectly praises all the phases of old Rome's historic papacies. The dead red roses float in symbiotic sacrifice to long dead religions and a joyous old South. The new South seduced by orgiastic myth, reproduced, to promote fevered pleasure in sycophant seekers of false history. I found displayed all the rages of the ages on the pages in their own time - placed by decision of revisionist mind. Integrity of lust, indisputably pure until sated by objectified cure. Then lost again in retrieval of memory. Now contaminated, fully, by casual indoctrination causing idiosyncratic immolation of synaptic integration. A self-destructive, cultural, (*****sapiens specific) neurotic guilt is causal. Is there somewhere, hidden in forbidden, abandoned land, a gated, grisly city sealed and shut by rusted nails? Standing there where citrus fruit rots, in the sultry dusk of time - Eden - forsaken ruination of a city; the failed garden of God.