Roses & Blood
A/N: I'm loving the world of one-shots, all thanks to Snev. This, as well as All My Luck, could very well become something more than just single chapters. Thanks to everyone who reads this story! This story is from Snow's point of view. It has some gore, blood, hate, and more. Snow is insane, jut like me! I don't own anything, no matter how much I beg Ms. Collins.
This was the 75th Hunger Games. My pride and joy. I find, after a refreshingly bloody Hunger Games, I need more flowers. Flowers, the wondrous child of mother nature. White roses, my speciality, mask the horrible scent my rotten gums give off. Blood and roses, a wonderful kaleidoscope of scent. Blood is everything, and those roses permeate my every dream.
My white roses, the sign of pure perfection, ache for the scent, the taste, the feel of pure, undiluted blood. Perfection has always been marred by those imperfect, and roses are no different. I find that, a rose, died blood red by the liquid of the heart, bears the scent of the gods, no matter how insane it seems.
That Katniss Everdeen has fooled me and my Gamemakers once again. Those who doubted me have already been executed, their blood being the perfect fertilizer for my roses. We have the Peeta boy, with the innocence of a frail flower, and he will be the key in our success agains the revolution. When the TrackerJacker venom enters his veins, his blood will no longer be fit for my flowers, but, for now, he fuels my red flowers.
Katniss, sweet, gentle, her death will finally be mine. I will relish in the pain and despair as my new muttations fill her poor heart with pain and her nose with the scent of me. Nothing will prevent me from getting her blood on my hands, filthy, vile, but oh so perfect.
My Capitol has no idea of the changes going on in the districts, and for that pure and unknowing innocent, I am glad. By keeping them out of the 'loop', my position of President remains secure from their doubts about me. I will be glad to see the rebels crushed, and District 12, the black smudge the color of coal, wiped of the face of Panem, and replaced with white, pure white, crushing, endless, helpful, loving white. Nothing will stop me from getting what I strive for and everything in my way will bow down to me and my roses, white and red alike.
Poetry flows from the mouth flawlessly, and I find it relaxing to think of everything from a poet's point of view. My roses, in this limelight, are even more pristine then any mere mortal can imagine. That is why only I understand their calls, their pleas for blood. I am not insane, merely… philosophical.
The roses, white as pure as angel breath,
Hath been poisoned by the wrath of man,
For now the rose is red,
and faith is little more than a memory.
A/N: This is just an insight to what I think of Snow's brain, and the poetry is mine, I hope none of you plagiarize my poem, it would get you a D- in English ;D.