It was once a treasure to behold.
So bright, so pure, so bold.
On display atop the shelf
Sits a red, red rose.
A ray of sunlight gleams upon it.
It never grows, nor does it die,
But emits a mysterious light:
The red, red rose.
As the sun begins to set
And night begins its show,
Something strange has happened
To the red, red rose.
The color starts to dissipate
Somehow, in the steady moonlight.
The petals are deposed
From the red, red rose.
Like a sinister corruption,
A dark, shadowy plague,
The once crimson masterpiece
Is now a black, black rose.
The red, it seems, has died,
Its beauty of a different kind.
An aura of pain and sorrow
From the black, black rose.
Like a phantom of the past,
Honored, in a way,
Haunting to the soul
The black, black rose.
A monument, a memorial,
A symbol of a loss.
"Death" is now thy name,
O black, black rose
Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 9:29 AM UTC
It was once a treasure to behold.
So bright, so pure, so bold.
On display atop the shelf
Sits a red, red rose.
A ray of sunlight gleams upon it.
It never grows, nor does it die,
But emits a mysterious light:
The red, red rose.
As the sun begins to set
And night begins its show,
Something strange has happened
To the red, red rose.
The color starts to dissipate
Somehow, in the steady moonlight.
The petals are deposed
From the red, red rose.
Like a sinister corruption,
A dark, shadowy plague,
The once crimson masterpiece
Is now a black, black rose.
The red, it seems, has died,
Its beauty of a different kind.
An aura of pain and sorrow
From the black, black rose.
Like a phantom of the past,
Honored, in a way,
Haunting to the soul
The black, black rose.
A monument, a memorial,
A symbol of a loss.
"Death" is now thy name,
O black, black rose