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A Plague Infects the Roses

Donald P. Goodman III

Version 1.0,
Fell plague infects the roses; blooming soft and fair, now black and putrid; blossoming, they decompose with reeking, rotting stench; though dying in dispair of its own stinking death, it spreads and overgrows its quarantine, until it's choked out healthy blooms with its contagion, wilting purity with sick till sallow pestilence o'er all the garden looms like clouds all dark and heavy, but unworldly quick will dump their life-destroying hail; but plague will stay and spread and poison all, e'er fouler and more thick until no more do fair and sweet the roses lay, but dank and sick amidst the darkness of the day.
How can the garden e'er be sav'd when all the blooms are reeking in their wretchedness, are dark and dead? Behold! E'en those who've fought and still show bright like plumes are overwhelm'd by all the nightmares in the bed! But still the sower never ceases casting seed, though some falls on the stones, and some falls to the side, and very many grow; but seeking sun to feed, are chok'd by thorns of plague, which cannot health abide. But though the plague seems endless and without defeat, some seed will grow to join the few who plague defied; can health infect a sickness, force it to retreat? force overwhelming pestilence to yield its seat?
The healthy rose blooms with a color not its own, for its own light is darken'd by the fell disease and made to shine no more, dark, ugly, and alone, though e'er surrounded by the others it would please. Oh, no; the healthy rose must empty out its soul and draw its life from deepest roots and sun on high, surrender its own movements to the sun's control, make room for meat and drink that never runneth dry. For though the garden now seems dark as darkest night, the sun will e'er arise, no matter how we thole; this plague by prayer and fasting must the healthy fight; this darkness only yields unto the highest light.