The rose is encased like glass. Stones go through the crevices. Steps by stone are waiting to be solved. Closing the curtain. Shadows keep lurking. I keep looking. A rose is a rose, but it must be identified.

The swirls of a rose keep me up in the night. A daisy isn't a rose. Closing the glass. Spinning in symmetry. Not in reflection nor recognition. The door closes behind me.

A day or night doesn't define me. Crevices don't come through. Shadows lurk, and I am in the dark, looking. Doors and curtains close on me.