The Senses by Isabella Boughalem

I reach out for something,
Something stable in the midst of chaos,
I reach out to grip something known,
To hold the true definition of beauty.
Something divine, yet wild,
A flower.
Its form embodies bright blush petals,
And a verdant vibrant stem.
It would only be fitting that the touch,
Could surpass,
Such a masterpiece for the eyes.
But reaching out blindly,
Results in agony.
It stings like a thousand bees,
As the black thorn pricks my gentle hand.
And suddenly what seems so innocent and so pure,
Taints with its prick.
I am deceived time and time again,
Wrapping me in its false sense of splendor.
Now I am conscious that the only thing,
Left uncorrupted,
Is my sense of smell.
And with that I realize,
Regret is like a rotten rose,
Putrid with beauty.