Black Rose
They call me a black rose,
braided with stains of sterling;
Riddled with enormous thorns,
to some a bit menacing;
They call me a black rose,
dark and threaded with pain;
Stained with the blood of raindrops,
a short fuse tipped with lightning;
They call me a black rose,
petals laced with shadows;
No one every really sees me;
They just question me, my everything
They call me a black rose,
a poem in a world done reading;
Punk fluorescent glows,
a black light for hidden prose.
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