Black Rose

A bloom so dark, it swallows light,
Petals draped in velvet night,
In shadows deep, it stands alone,
The black rose chills like coldest stone.

From twisted roots in barren ground,
It rises where no warmth is found,
Its fragrance sharp, a whispered song,
Of sorrow kept for far too long.

Each petal holds a tale of woe,
Of love once bright, now faded slow,
Of whispered vows, of hearts betrayed,
In gardens lost where shadows played.

Its beauty fierce, defies the sun,
A testament to what's undone,
In haunted hues of midnight's hue,
The rose of black, in darkness true.

Yet in its bloom, a secret lies,
Beneath the thorns, where silence cries,
A strength that blooms despite the pain,
Defying death in life's cruel reign.

For though it's dark, it dares to grow,
In places light may never go,
A symbol born from sorrow's seed,
The black rose dares to fill the need.

It lives in shadows, thrives alone,
A thing of beauty carved from stone,
A quiet power, fierce and rare,
The black rose blooms without despair.