Powers of Our Perceptions

Remembering how the rose wilted was one of the most painful experiences of my life and all the thought that went into contemplating that complexity has led me to lead a life of solitude,
For what can bring one back from the edges of that despair, and what chance does a soul have to reenter a body it has left when it is bereft with such traumatic sadness,
As the garden faded into natures dust, and the sands of time blew over everything I was an unfeeling mass of ectoplasm hovering over my own grievances,
I could not feel the kiss of the wind nor the caress of blasting sands but only the tender nothingness of floating as an ethereal presence only staring at the earth as an observer through a screen,
In the midst of that pitiful reaction I settled down amongst the ground only to find that I missed that level of viewing and the sight from a top was frightful and distracting,
I could not see those woods for those trees and all the bleakness and the missing bees of that season were there attracted to the simplest life boat - a sore little flower determined to grow,
Remembering the spring time I felt a tingle of response over the jellyfish membranes of my afterlife go and remove itself from that place and I was warm to the pecks of sand that comforted me in the winds,
On the other side of my remorse and my pity was a budding world where stinging insects dissected the milk of the flowers to create their colonies and it was beautiful and soon by judgements all my own, I willed myself back to my body,
Though it had been buried under the sand trap of time I dug my way out cherishing every shouldered vertical push until the beams of the welcomed sun seemed to lift me up to my feet,
And through my eyes - for they were the same eyes - I saw that the rose pedals had never wilted it was I,
I who had perceived them so.