The darkest of roses, like the black night sky.
Begins to wither, and turns away shy.
For the naked branch that holds the leafs.
Start to curl down, and hide underneath.
Under the darkest blossom, thats beginning to die.
Still so beautiful, still so alive.
The roses fragrance.
Luscious and lovely, begging to ferment.
Petals drop off, slow as feathers.
Not wanting to fall, fighting the weather.
The time is now to decompose.
The darkest hour, the darkest rose.
