The last rose bush was planted at the top of a mountain, isolated from the world as punishment for having been a source of temptation and wicked desires. In its hair bloomed the heavy flowers of its past passions and birds made of bronze guarded it zealously, ready to peck out its eyes should it try to descend.
However, it does not try, for the rose bush is wise and knows the hearts of men and prefers to stay up there, away from them, refusing to feed their perverted desire of watching it crawl.
I had this laying around for months. I do not know what might happen with its warm-coloured older sibling (this is mah for-my-own-use take), so I went retro on it and now we have more bluishness in the gallery.
inks at the blog, text from there: [link]