The Black Rose

The black rose,
laying on the white table,
with water drops on each pedal,
from the night where a storm started,
strong it's root deep it stranded,
the rain washed down it came,
yet not a single damaged it caused,
the morning where the sun was burning,
water all it dry but the rose still damp,
it was call the rose of death,
to me it is the rose of a survivor.

by lee sharon

Comments (3)

beautiful.. black roses can be like raven winged hair
I love that such a great poem
Yay! It's so good to find some one who writes so well on the internet. You read my 'hacked' and'the tiger' so I had to see what you did with it! Wonderful, sheerly lovely.