Here is a poetic prose for you:
::The Rose and the garden and the Rose::
I see a dark, yet lovely flower. Petals of coal and yet soft to touch.
I hear the gutteral, tortured growl of a great hiddeous beast within the flower, it's crys billowing forth from the centre of the black rose, and the incessant beating, the thump thumping of a heart filled with darkness yet bathed in hope.
As I turn the roar twists into the deep probing moan of contra-bassoon, and the thumping yields to the wood-sweet sighs of cello. I look through a window at a world, hideous, yet beautiful in it's pristine deformity, a place of peace. I gaze through the glass seeing my own longings as a deep-rooted fig, not yet bearing of fruit. I begin to find my heart drawn to the garden, drawn by contra-bassoon and cello.
Touching the cold hard glass I am pushed into the realisation that the window is a mirror, I am in the garden. Yet the garden is still further mysterious, for within the cello and contra-bassoon floats the simple melody of voice, but not the voice of man, yet not woman, but still it speaks to me. Words of musical clarity, words I do not know, but yet I understand, and understanding is in itself a hard shell where the light of reason cannot play.
Timbre sweet and harmony joins the play of words within the garden, they speak to me. My thoughts are joined in music of the garden, on and on I speak, but not saying.
More and more of the garden speaks to me, but yet there is no sound, only the thump thumping of the blackened heart and the groaning of the rose.
::END::
http://forums.megatokyo.com/showflat.php?Cat=&Board=writing&Number=1182716&Forum=writing&Words=garden&Match=Entire%20Phrase&Searchpage=1&Limit=25&Old=1year&Main=1097004&Search=true#Post1182716
For original context.
::The Rose and the garden and the Rose::
I see a dark, yet lovely flower. Petals of coal and yet soft to touch.
I hear the gutteral, tortured growl of a great hiddeous beast within the flower, it's crys billowing forth from the centre of the black rose, and the incessant beating, the thump thumping of a heart filled with darkness yet bathed in hope.
As I turn the roar twists into the deep probing moan of contra-bassoon, and the thumping yields to the wood-sweet sighs of cello. I look through a window at a world, hideous, yet beautiful in it's pristine deformity, a place of peace. I gaze through the glass seeing my own longings as a deep-rooted fig, not yet bearing of fruit. I begin to find my heart drawn to the garden, drawn by contra-bassoon and cello.
Touching the cold hard glass I am pushed into the realisation that the window is a mirror, I am in the garden. Yet the garden is still further mysterious, for within the cello and contra-bassoon floats the simple melody of voice, but not the voice of man, yet not woman, but still it speaks to me. Words of musical clarity, words I do not know, but yet I understand, and understanding is in itself a hard shell where the light of reason cannot play.
Timbre sweet and harmony joins the play of words within the garden, they speak to me. My thoughts are joined in music of the garden, on and on I speak, but not saying.
More and more of the garden speaks to me, but yet there is no sound, only the thump thumping of the blackened heart and the groaning of the rose.
::END::
http://forums.megatokyo.com/showflat.php?Cat=&Board=writing&Number=1182716&Forum=writing&Words=garden&Match=Entire%20Phrase&Searchpage=1&Limit=25&Old=1year&Main=1097004&Search=true#Post1182716
For original context.