Of all of the beautiful flowers,
the most detested,
most misunderstood black rose,
shall lie on my bed
when he comes home.
Why a black rose,
that sleeps upon my bosom
and scents the room
with putrid death?
Why a foul flower,
that lays upon my womanhood,
and fills my body
with hate?
It is the fine hairs
of his senseless touch.
It is the the pure atmosphere
that shadows him
when he loves me
as the world hates me.
He is sweet Love
He is sweet Death.
YOU ARE READING
Psychasthenia: A Life Black Nights
PoetryMy first Book of Truth I would also like to thank XDreamWithMeX for the cover. This is a story of five friends, my personal, closest friends, and their Secrets. Very few can tell what they are, but most are too captivated by the art it creates. ~In...
