Pink red flower

I see that spiral red and pink, the splotches that tell me of your untimely death... Like blood spattered upon the heart; I feel so out of place, so noble, so bold, so cold. Where did all the roses go? The daisies, the sunsets, the sweet water and air. Why passé that which is cliché? Why ban the beautiful? Sweet death has come to knock on the doors, it knocks and your heart be still. Mankind will not heed its call, with the death of beauty so dies grace. With a handful of red-brown earth, not apple, not poison, I tempt you. And so you shall fall. Not again sweet prisoner, not again. Fall for the first time from grace. Kill off the beautiful, kill off nature, kill off all which can be known. Knowledge itself is your victim. Knowledge, the dying muse.
Sit with me. Strange killer. By my side be my companion. See the world as you have not seen it, look at it not as that which must die. See it for what it once was and see it for what it has become and can be. Do not run from that which you cannot understand, do not try to kill it for having been beaten. I do not kill your wife for your battery, I do not shoot your dog because it starves. Sit here with me a while, hate if you must, and open your mind for once to the possibilities which can be but yet are not. Stare at that large lily-like pink flower, stare at its red splotched existence and tell me about the rose.