Thursday, February 28, 2013

Poetic truths

The Black rose

Once upon a finest hour
I picked the darndest lovely flower
His pretty petals were silky black
Utmost perfection; not a crack
The sharpest of thorns you'll ever see
I wonder if this was meant to be
His thorns would prick me when he played
It hurt me and I'd cry but yet I stayed
His stem was taller than the rest
I think he knew he was the best
I never knew of his black magic and that's how this story turned so tragic
How was I suppose to know?
He reeled me in then let me go...
- yours truly

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