The Black Rose

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The fire creeps slowly, Mad as the wind takes it,

Up the stems quickly, Like a raging storm,

It cries out for help, But no one hears,

It turns to grey, It can’t breathe,

Slowly it changes, Dark as the night,

Black as the death it brings,

Ashes fall to the ground softly,

It turns to thick cold blood,

The rose is no more.

It is now The Black Rose.

This post was submitted by Paula Jordan.

Category: Sad Poems
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