The Black Rose.

To those that are still angry

The fragile black rose,
Alone in the street,
Frightened to move,
But brought to his feet,
By a mystical mind,
Hidden in shadows,
Reluctant to stir,
In the mist of an arrow.

Taking his petal,
By his right hand,
Feeling his texture,
A rough contraband,
an emotion so high,
His hand did run deep,
Relating his fear,
Of never to sleep.

By his thorn,
It did prick,
A poisoning syrup,
For him to sip,
Goodbye to the stranger,
The clock has struck twelve,
Into the shadows,
He did delve.

Reviews

[Sujash I. Purna]

I loved this one. This is an amazing work!

[paul]

great. with a hauntedness, at times.
absolutely love the first 3 lines