More poems by S K I T T L E-bear

Black Roses

A crown of thorns
Sits upon your head;
The thorns of a black rose.

The black rose-
A rose so dark,
So mysterious;
A rose as black as your heart.

It feels so hard,
So cold to the touch.
It's withered and dying away.

I pick it from the garden;
The garden of despair.

A thorn punctures my skin,
Letting the blood flow.
It drips, hot and crimson,
Onto the petals.

My blood, it stains them.
They absorb it,
Warmth and color spread throughout.
The roses are no longer black.
Color and warmth,
Warmth and color.
The roses are black no more.