These black roses

There are flowers in the vase.
Rare, black roses.
With dark brown stems,
that have streaks of darker
violet throughout.
With leaves, deep, blood red.

The skin of the thorns
is smooth, with a sheen.
A sheen, like that of a
poorly sharpened knifes edge.
Each thorn, ready to pierce,
and draw blood to feed its leaves.

It is said they are seeded by broken hearts,
and given drink by the tears of fallen angels.
Their petals don't capture light like red roses,
and don't carry the scent of flowery fields.
They grow from the wellspring of sadness,
and are the shadows in a room, cooled by death.

They fill the eyes of the naive with wonder and mystery,
and so are given, so often, as a precious gift.
How rare the occasion they are sent as a farewell,
to those who have fallen from life.
They sit over a grave, dark and beautiful,
in rememberance of a heart that no longer beats.

You look at them, and see their sadness.
You touch them, and feel their sorrow.
You sniff at them, and a hurt weeps within your heart.
In this lies their beauty, and their essence,
in that, through these roses, one is cleansed of pain.
The soul, renewed, and the world is brighter.

These black roses are not born for love,
or as endearments in smiles, or sweet kisses.
They sit upon my window sill, in the night air,
to remind passers by of the death haunting my rooms.
I sent them to my own self the morning before last,
so I may look upon them as I breathe my last breath.

Dedicated to Dez, who sees, in the dark, all that
which is light. I hope I got it right.