Decrepit Beauty

In Mannfred Curze, Promo by Mannfred Curze

A flower grows by the sunlight and by the care of the gardener to become a beautiful image. Something that people look upon and admire for it’s beauty and elegance. A red rose, beautiful and full of meaning. We put a high price on it’s beauty for the skill it takes to grow something so remarkable. Something not much different from a weed that would suffocate it, but we deem the one ugly for it does not meet the standard we have placed on this other plant.

We are taught to find beauty in things like this flower. That beauty that needs to be nurtured and care for. Protected from horrors to allow it to become a shining beacon in the world.

We see this plant grow, and we remark on it’s stunning meaning, and take great care for it to ensure the evils, the weeds, don’t ruin it.

But beauty is a fragile thing. One blemish, one mistake, one careless snip and we discard the plant and try again. To try and make something beautiful from the decomposing waste of the previous plant. We ignore, bury and pretend that the previous attempt to nurture this beauty never happened.

You turn a blind eye to the ugliness you left behind, you cast off everything you find ugly. Anything that doesn’t match your arbitrary, subjective, description of beauty you make sure to cut down and leave behind.

But every now and then, you return to that ugly ground. You look to the ugly corpses to look for a seed to try again. A glimmer of hope that out of the ugliness you discarded, that a beauty will come of it all.

You ignore the maggots, the worms, the beetles that have made that disgusting thing a home. You take it away from them.

All in a vain search for beauty. You start again, to grow that beautiful rose.

But now, something isn’t right. The earth you’ve used all this time to grow and bury this beauty no longer sustains your plants. That beautiful rose dies the moment it blossoms, and you can’t figure out why.

You don’t see that the ground has festered. Has grown desperate for light that no longer reaches it.

But still, you blame the plant for failing you. And again bury the plant.

You send it to the Bleak, Narcissa. You bury what you wish to not see, and then come looking for that glimmer of hope once again. Only to find less and less returning.

You can bury us here in the Bleak all you want. Pretend we don’t exist as you chase this beauty you want to nurture. You come, steal the seeds that would help those of us suffering. Steal the hope of the lost, the ugly, the weeds you threw away.

But now, the Bleak is starting to fight.

It has sent me to snuff out the beauty you rob from us.

No rose will grow here,

not until the right corpse fertilizes the earth.