Monday, March 14, 2011

The Black Rose

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.

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