The Black Rose

'Twas one december 'eve,
the story which i relate,
when the wind was howling in the trees,
and blowing at the gate.

Upon a desk was i sat,
inside the inner-chambers,
when i heard a noise, "pat, pat, pat"
disturbing from my labours.

The snow was falling heavily,
down upon the earth,
I raised myself steadily,
and proceeded from my hearth.

the sea of stars was dim,
the moon quite unseen,
i opened up the door and got
a feeling very grim.

For upon my wind-swept step,
there\'s no caller to be seen,
stealthily away they\'d crept,
leaving signs where they\'d been.

For the sign they left that night,
no one's ever seen,
'twas the mark of unholy death,
which plunged me into plight.

A single longstalked rose,
left almost casually,
as if from one in a doze,
who let it fall gradually.

A simple flower instilled in me,
horrors never seen,
for that pretty rose my dears,
was black as black could be.

This impossibility
i pondered over more,
whilst standing on my outer steps,
remembering legends yore.

from my step i picked it up,
and carried it inside,
placed it inside a cup,
and watched it's silent pride.

the black rose hath not been seen,
for many centuries,
and here upon my step it was,
where the mystery caller'd been.

To this day i know not,
what's in store for me,
but here i quote from the book,
in which now i take a look:

"The black rose,
the mark of death,
to be avoided,
never touched,

if you receive it,
you do know,
the mark upon you,
it's not for show.

Death hath been cheated,
he hath called on thee,
and left to thou a message,
"for thee I wait, for thee I come"

If perchance,
you touched the thing,
your chances:
very slim.

there's not much we can do for thee,
we know not what to say,
except to repent from sins,
to then sit still and pray.

for in 4 score and 30 days,
when the moon is full,
that's the day we bid to thee
a heartfelt farewell."

And now that time is almost up,
there is but an hour,
I leave behind me to the world,
my story and legacy.

Thus I penned my poem,
written now it's done;
but won't you care to stay,
and find out what is done?

stay with me,
await with me,
come with me,
and see!

An hour later upon my door,
I hear a shadow i never saw,
tap-tapping upon the lattice,
tap-tapping on my door.

Knowing it my destiny,
knowing it His will,
still i arm myself,
before i answer my door.

And the tapping getting louder,
To the door I say "Hark! I hear thee, await!
stop your tapping now,
now upon my grate."

Closer to the door I come,
as to swing it open,
but i am stopped suddenly,
by an icy voice spoken:

"For thee I wait, for thee I come,
For thee it is, for thee who's done,
For thee you are, for thee you've been,
for thee hath seen, for thee I mean."

Shaken to the core,
I started to implore,
"quit your riddles sir,
and state your meaning plain!"

But he proceeded once again,
his icy voice starting plain,
a voice so terrible,
yet so still and comforting.

"Thee hath touched,
thee hath loved,
thee hath hated,
thee hath gruged."

"And who be thou,"
i started now,
"To say about me thus?"
I waited for his reply, it came steadily thus:

"Never hath thee really seen,
nor never hath thou really been,
for one can never really be,
until he deceiveth me."

shocked was i for this reply,
"whom art thou, who claims:
'i hath been deceived,
deceiveth have i been by thee?'"

"I am he whom you fear,
i am he who is not,
i am he who claims those dear,
i am he who hath not forgot."

"thou art Death!"
I proclaimed,
to which was stated,
"I be he."

He continued:
"thou hath touched the rose,
which i left for thee,
that one december 'eve."

This reply had chilled my spine,
but the courage of mine never failing,
"I thank thee for your gracious gift"
those words i spake to him.

"A gift thou hath, for the gift thou took,
no gift of mine can be forsook, for the gift i give,
is the gift of death, the last gift thou receives."

For this reply I would not settle,
"and is there a way to cheat the devil?
Take my life and be done!"
and so I opened up the door.

Startled was i to find,
no one was there at all,
only a silent whisper,
which was left behind.

The whisper of death,
the stench of fear,
and the cry,
of loved ones dear.

For spirit now am I,
Remember me, O passer by,
as you are, so once was I,
as I am so shall you be: remember this, and follow me.
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(c) Daniel J 2005.
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