|There is a rose so deep,so dark|
No glints of light or little spark
Nay people lay their eyes on her
They misconstrue her limpid care
She is a rose on gothic tomb
No lifeblood creeps her catacomb
The moonbeams wish to give her life
But every ray begets a strife
There is a dead rose withering
Spoiled by winter,putrefying
Somehow,somewhere there's poetry
That saw her with grim prodigy;
A monolith of weird banshees
The kinds that stirs the poetess.
There is a black rose on the floor
Quashed in the darkroom,evermore.