Glass.

Petals of glass, sharp as shards of ice, shimmer with an ethereal beauty. A delicate stem, spun from moonlight and sorrow, supports the blossom’s fragile weight. It blooms in the heart of the city, a siren song of exquisite danger. Fingers reach out, drawn to its allure, yearning for its touch. Blood blossoms on pristine glass, a crimson tear against the cold, unyielding surface. The beauty remains, untouched, a cruel reminder of the price of longing. The glass flower stands tall, a monument to the seductive nature of pain.