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Black Rose
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October 2002 Poetry Dark as the midnight hour.
My petals weep,
dew drop tears of blood.
My thorns,
sharp as devil horns.
I am a black rose.
Dark and mysterious.
My ebony petals wilt,
and fall.
I shrivel and die.
But no one notices or cares.
For the black rose is only used,
by the dark lovers of the night.
The unseen immortal dark angels,
who will never make it,
to their final destination.
So I fill their lives,
with the only color they know.
The color of night.
The color of their souls.
The black rose,
is who I am.
~*~ Jill ~*~
