Black roses with prickly
Poisonous thorns,
Growing like little
Devil horns.

Their color the blackest of black,
Like ink spilled all over them,
Forever turning them into a
Flower of pure darkness.

Any other flower that might
Come into contact with them
Won't stand a chance,
It'll wither away fast.

Black roses make one curious,
Enough to try to pluck at least
One of them out of the bush
They made their home.

Not even humans are exempt
From the consequences of
Touching the lethal flowers,
A cruel fate indeed.

An alluring scent they might have,
That of finest perfume,
But the scent is as equally
Deadly as their little thorns.

A work of dark arts,
Crafted beautifully,
Serving only as a disguise,
Venomous and heinous.

So steer clear if you happen to
Come across a bush full of
Inky black roses.
You'll escape your untimely demise.



© Emee


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