The Black Rose
Black velvet was the rose that withered at my feet
Poet he was not and blood dripped from the thorns
a rose as black as night skies
a rose as black as the poets eyes-
Poet he was not and black the blood from his thorns
So dead inside was he with the black roses born
a rose as black as his icy eyes
with thorns as demeaning as his guiltless eyes-
So gifted was he with the black roses from
a rose as black as winter nights
with thorns as sharp as his thoughtless lies
black velvet was the rose on summer sighs-
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