The Cursed Black Rose
Soft and fragile, the black petals lay.
A hand plucked it, tucking sorrow in its pocket.
A venomous sting struck the chest;
desperate, agonized, the body convulsed.
Shallow breaths lingered—
pain devoured the blood of the soul.
Prickings gnawed at flesh;
a scream rose for release, alone.
The rose mocked the trembling frame,
whispering: “Pass me on.”
Its constraints laid bare,
it warned of bleeding more petals
for the next to bear.
The offered chance was welcomed,
unaware of the treachery it held.
Since then, the hurt loops endlessly,
leaving a black, glimmering petal
upon each bosom.
The cursed rose still hunts a worthy hand;
humans pass it on,
wrapped in bruises and despair.
Everyone bears a petal now—
while one shoulders
the ever-growing curse.
And the black rose waits…
for the final heart to shatter.
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