I walk down a field of beautiful roses.

So pure,
And indulged in colour.

A whole field full of roses,
I could pick any rose I desired,
Any rose to stay with me forever.

I was just about to grab a beautiful red rose,
Blood red.

But I came across a black rose that was planted next to the
Red rose.

So dull,
Old,
Already picked out of the ground,
But wasn't wanted, it was rammed back into the ground,
Carelessly

Majority of the petals had fallen off,
And continue to do so.

The thorns are growing,
Becoming sharper.
Something about that rose mixed my emotions up.

Why out of a whole field of lush, red roses
Did I pick a black one?

I picked the black flower up...
It pricked my finger,
Blood was spilt over the rose,
It stained it with red, the colour of love.

I am now a part of the rose...

I held it to my chest,
With dignity

I arrive home,
And place the rose in a fragile, clear vase.
Just like I placed you in my heart,
Fragile,
And precious

Every time I walk past the vase,
Consuming the rose.

The water becomes infected,
The rose grows weaker,
The thorns grow thicker and sharper.

They got so sharp that it came to a point where
The thorns put so much pressure on the vase,
That it shattered to tiny, dirty individual pieces.

The Black rose lies on my bedside table,
Setting a depressing vibe to everywhere it is positioned.

But I still fall for it each and everytime...
It chains me down in rusty,
Grey,
Old chains, not letting me move, or feel another thing
Except for what I feel for the black rose.

I am still chained down today,
Now in my own coffin,
By the power and love I felt for it...

And the Black rose still remains,
Lying on the top of my coffin...