The Black Rose
Oh, how my heart groans in sore discomfort
At the mention of that name by the mind in the morning dew,
The obsession that has raptured my soul
And to itself binded me with chains so loose-
Am I to be declared head over heels
In something I gratefully partook in with Godspeed?
How do I claim that it was I who fell,
When the rose, with thorned tendrils and malice, did pull me in?
To every flower, a bee does alight it's stalk,
But to the Black Rose, this wasp did rush in full of lust;
For the nectar that this Rose produced
Did far Supercede whatever fanatics found in others to be muse,
Now only time will tell, if ever it does please,
Whether this One will find himself, from the Black Rose, Saved and Free
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