That velvety black rose from depths of cold ash,
Thirst quenched by the tears of the thundering red sky,
The crashes chase fiery hairlines, cold flashes,
From cold, thorny velvet, the wet petals fly--
Like the drenched rose could cry.

Whirlwinds whip, ash rose shrouded in black.
The blossom still fights through the rain, sharp as glass.
The glow of the sun’s what the thorny rose lacks,
But, at dawn’s dim grey glow, withered rose is cold ash--
Ash, like the others before it.

A rose, as it grows, is a rose, still, at death
Through wind and the rain, and the frost's icey breath
For a rose and its seed and the ash when it's gone
Will wither and die in the time before dawn.
What's ash can't come back.
It's gone.