A Rose in The Midnight

In the darkest garden of void

where gloom sheds its dew

over the only rose that stood

sensing the midnight it knew

with its plush petals, blood-red

but reeked in the tints of rue. 

Like a ghost in the morn n' dusk

with eyes like stars grown dim, 

He watched me like a tombstone

and spoke of a love so grim 

with a voice like a wooing melody,

dawdled me to lug unto him. 

The rose, like a cursed sentinel,

hovered like a widowed bride

as souvenirs of a love forlorn

started to creep and bleed inside. 

The rose heaved to the breeze

as though its heart had died. 

I reached to pluck the bloom

but its thorns pierced my skin

and as blood-stained my hands

I felt his visage breathe within;

his lips and mine did gently touch

for a kiss to be born out of sin. 

He took me to the fringes of dreams

where horrors find their home,

there we kissed on the graves of love

with nothing left to bid me roam

The rose, he laid it on my chest, 

with its fragrance now a tomb.

Then the Moon slowly withdrew its veil

but he did not depart. 

His thoughts remained in me

and tied themselves to my heart

The rose at midnight, stained in blood

will never tear apart.