The petals of roses fall dying, in the last
of the summer light,
Bloody-red, sunny-yellow, blushing-pink
& pure virginal white,
Dying, crushed upon bridal beds, on
passion´s wedding nights,
Perfume lingering, long after the fading of
blind man´s last sight.
But tell me, what of the gothic rose, she
of black velvet twilight?
She who´s never kissed by the sun, what of
her dark & sad plight?
She, adorning ball-gown of the tomb´s
delectable & ultimate bite,
Caressed by star-lit bats, queen of night,
bloom of black gothic rite.
Dropping ebon petals as tears of ink &
thorns that bleed in the night,
Rose of ravens & blood, waltzing
mantled in the cloak of moonlight,
On the breath of night breezes, I hear
weeping, gentle & ever so slight,
Whispering,” do not cry for me, because I
know that I will be alright”.
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