Black blood petals, blown off
only a few though
the harsh wind will carry on
to struggle with it, pulling and tugging
The Storm grows darker
thicker and fatter – but quiet for now
harnessing its power
welcoming the dim greyness of my world
while the Black Rose keeps flourishing
darker as a bud
bloodier in the fuller beauty of its bloom
the thickly thorned shrubbery underneath it
supports it, gives it tough character
to help it survive morbid invasions
Then there is fear
as the terrible Tempest awakens from its slumber
the heartless storm batters my rose
with its heavily burdened tears
that fall from the dreary sky
overpowered by the hasty wind
and even its thorns
can’t protect it now.
The Tempest is as heartless as I am now.
I cut off the Black Rose
and press it into my hand
letting its colourless life blood
mingle with my own scarlet blood
and the colourless sap seeps forth
from the stem I cut it off
cutting it off from the rest of its body
at least with me it’s protected and safe
protected from the storm.
The drive to the graveyard is slow
following the black procession
holding the Black Rose close
in small hope that its thorns
will bleed heat into me. And we arrive
It’s lowered down, six feet underground and I
I drop the Black Rose into the grave
the petals falling with a heavy burden
on to the wooden confines
sounding like the final heartbeat
then suffocated under the soil.
I feel I’ve now done my part
so turning away, I say:
“rest in peace, my Heart”.
