In the black hills he lies,
in his old Kentucky home.
A passion within his mind,
burning, despite the cold.

He knows not what he is doing,
thinking with a mind that is not his.
He knows only that which can be known,
and that is all there is.

A wind is prevalent within him,
one that chills him to the bone.
Acting against his bitter nature,
he stares down an unknown road.

He swore he’d never act on impulse,
he swore he’d never lose his mind.
Focus was all he really had,
then she came into his life.

She takes away the security,
the way he knows so well.
But can she bring down his walls?
Time will only tell.

She entices him with greetings.
With her, he feels so close.
Still, he finds words escape him,
in the presence of a black rose.

No doubt that he fears change,
and he fears what could be.
He fears what he cannot control,
and she is vigorous and free.

Separated by a vast sea,
yet strangely together in heart.
He finds he knows not what to say,
so he watches it fall apart.

Act once on impulse,
Twice on intuition.
Act three is completely irrational,
But brings this to fruition

He tries to avoid reality,
because he knows what it holds.
He is absorbed within that passion,
to avoid all the cold.

In this old Kentucky home,
among the black hills, he lies.
Too fearful to take a chance,
He’s found his spirit has died.

And, so, by reaching out,
he is met with only scorn.
In reaching for that black rose,
he has only grabbed her thorns.