Work Text:
A gold-covered rose.
It shouldn’t have wilted so soon.
Midas liked to compare himself to said rose, wondering what day the exterior will crack and show the dead flower on the inside.
The flower was slowly decaying day after day; the shiny exterior never failed to impress.
He felt himself slipping, losing grip on the cliff he barely hung onto in the first place. People stopped helping, people stopped caring.
He was alone, but he didn’t see that as a bad thing.
And so, while he fell to the end, he let the rose go, finally showing the dead inside.