The rose budded, but bloomed black
And it set creation back
Was it dead?
They can not say,
But paint it red
And forget the day
Take it out, Erase it back,
The day the roses bloomed black
Not what you see, not what you mean
Pinch yourself; this is not a dream,
Fall down, like the last petal drops,
Put on your make up, set the props,
Take the brush; paint all the roses red,
Curl up inside, tell yourself your dead.
Stand up, on your fallen ground
Act, because they're all around,
Blend into the scenery - become unknown,
Let yourself leave you, all sense has now flown.
Molded like clay in their hands
A foreigner in foreign lands.
Take back the fate and try to mold
Grasp it all, you want to hold
Train it better, make it right,
Self illusion its day and not night
Why can't you see it's not broken?
It has a heart, its not your token
But you change what you can't see
Because you think it needs to be.
She isn't the usual gem inside,
Underneath the green, she still hides,
Suffocated and smothered in red,
Struggling out against the dead,
But trapped inside and could not break free,
And so the lungs refused to breathe.
Our dear one died, and went away,
And on that grey mourning day,
The rose bloomed black, again,
We could not say exactly when.
It looks dark like death
But will steal your breath
As if to say - "Why can you not see,
This is the way I was made to be?"
