The Black Roses

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Something from the heart.

Submitted: August 24, 2009

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Submitted: August 24, 2009

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Black are the roses -
the roses are black.
Beautiful as they swallow hot cylinders
which draw bats on the ceilings of caves.

Fossils filled with salt & saliva
corner wounded children,
& force them to crack clouds.
Mountains with no peak clap
for all atrocities.

The saddened skies fed still birds
& opened up their colours,
giving way to half moons
with halos & scarred penumbra.

Black were the roses -
the roses were black.
Covered in sweat as they
licked the golden scent
of ancient catacombs.

Brushing through the rose,
a child of immediate oils,
stained with heavy bark
on his chest & throat.

Concave of clay & dormant sunlight,
hiding the spell of rose.
Peacocks of gold & silver,
braids & shadows, whip their tails.

Black are the roses,
lined in perfect rows.
Whisper to the stars,
'the roses are black.'


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