Another morning and another perfect rose splashed
scarlet across Jane’s doorstep from a cloudless blue sky.
Such a cliche, hissed her sister through gritted teeth
as yet another infant bit down on her teat.
Jane smiled as she sliced lemons for the Earl Grey
and planned yet another glass vase from Habitat.
The petals faded and flaked like old newspaper.
When they found her she was lying on a bed of thorns.
The Purple Hermit 