Author Information
Black Rose
Efinity turns to one
The clock turns back,
Starting over time
The blood seeps through
Or is that fluid wine?
The red rose was painted black, so divine
Red marks the blood loss
Black marks the death
The rose marks how you die from the knife in your lover's hand
The paint marks the wax, looking so real it's fake
Death is yet a less painful revision of alive
Go away a cretin, or go away with pride
To the world with gates lined with golden roses
With thorns so sharp it easily opposes the roses stem
A thorn so condemned
Outlined with the beauty of shivering gold
Beckon the rose, it's story retold!
