Died red

O rose, Black rose,
how I can not let go,
I grip your pointed ends,
and even as red falls from my wounds,
I can only grip tighter
The red falls, and creates a mirror image,
of you, black rose, died red

The sweet aroma of you, Death Rose,
Drifts above our heads,
as we wander, aimlessly,
through streets died red.

poem by Maddie Phish
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!