Black. Ugly. Growing.
It mustn't be allowed to fertilize.
It must be felled with a well aimed blow.
In the midst of the dozen red roses,
It is the Black Rose covered with thorns.

Pain. Blackness. Piercing Intensity.
I wonder.  I beg.  I plead.
There is no progress, only decaying emotions.
The only release possible presents itself.
Nonexistence.

Thoughts piercing my skull,
Whirling 'round, seeking escape.
Finding none, they make their own exit.
Pain ends in unconsciousness, unconsciousness in....
Nonexistence.