Perfume of the Rose

When a rose opens up dainty curls, unrolls petals as if she is shy, in silence her splendour unfurls, baring all to the spacious blue sky. She might sway in the whispery breeze and swoon as the Earth takes a breath or dance gaily as if she will tease before shedding her petals in death. It is then that the cruellest of men would separate stalk from the bloom, crush petals again and again to destroy with a callous cold gloom. When she's gone, might her perfume remain in the mind of her slayer for long? I can hope it would drive him insane, a lifetime to atone for his wrong. Perhaps I am no better than he to wish he regrets -- endlessly.