When I Stopped That Day To Pick Death's Rose

I heard a little rumor from a stranger on the road today; he wore a heavy veil of dusk to keep the winter's song at bay. His face was well concealed; although, his shriveled hands had drawn my sight; it seemed like they were withering and, like the moon, a pallid white. "A little further down this road, there lies a curse'd patch of grass obscured by trees to hide its shame; for that, I know I am to blame. The flow of time had left that place, yet still the living wandered in, until they saw that wicked plant whose very growth was deemed a sin." The frigid notes were ominous, like most of what the old man said, and quickly did his coal-coat flee to leave but silence in his stead. A trav'ler's prank is what I thought, but further down the road I saw an isolated trust of trees with polished trunks and lively leaves. Surveying past the tow'ring brown, I stood in awe at Gaia's gate; if anything, I had to know how nature could intimidate. The grass was like an emerald floor, a regal rug for royalty, and aromatic jewels stood proud amongst the scattered shrubbery. But then, I sensed a mournful soul and heard a fright'ning tearful call; at center grew a single rose, left weeping within wooden walls. Its petals were like chimney soot, but had the most enchanting smell; its stem and leaves were silver clad, a gorgeous blossom spawned from hell. Despite the omens I had heard, there was a certain beauty here. If such a flower bred disgust, I'd shelter it, neglecting fear. There was no trace of bitter cold, upon return from curse'd land. I left that world with fragrant sin clutched tightly in my mortal hand. My heart gave forth compassion, when I stopped that day to pick death's rose.