Prose: His Black Rose Divine

November 26, 2009
His Black Rose Divine
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She lay by the fountain of youth
Though decorated by the soft, fuzzy rose petals,
The earth’s soil--moist, rich, warm; she, dying…

Her tears running freely onto her ginger robe.
They ran in pain; slowly, plentiful; but they did not run dry.

He gazed from his window and saw the eagle soar.
His wings touching the tips of Heaven;
Glowing against the golden autumn sky.

She dropped next to the marble stone,
Watching the pool darken.

He stared at the Virgin’s Swan.
How beautiful was her form!
Her legs smooth as silk,
Her complexion like ivory; a likeness to perfect caramel.

But even this did not keep his eyes’ attention.

She fell into deep darkness.
The moon shone like silver.
She wept her hearts blood;
The depth of a black rose…

But this, her King?, he did not spy,
Though he stood by on his balcony.
His horizon was bronze; for he ruled the world!

She fell to her knees beside the oak tree.
Her barren spirit sunk to the roots.
Her hair now soaked with pain-awakened tears.
Her arms as weak as a babe.

His throne rose high.
His scepter, all-powerful.
His requests, decrees and
His power, just.

The people cheered for him!
And he reigned supreme!

She was not noticed,
His black rose, divine;
And though she lay dying--like that rose bush, by that old oak tree.
Her will all spent, her spirit more than crushed,
She still arose to leave.
Still was inserted. Check up.

The more she gave,
The higher he ascended!
This her death and passion in the same.

But did her Knight hear her cry aloud?
As she fell forward to her face.
He rose to his glory.
His fame and his riches.
While she rose only to the fallen petals of time.

She fainted in battle…
He plundered in Susa!
She died in Persia,
But still, he did not see.
Her blood smeared across her cheeks,
And the same across his doorpost.

Her cries just as poisonous as the black widow spider.
All awhile, he felt wounded still the same.
His pleasure was unfilled
By the fullness of her turmoil.

Who held her hand?
Who washed the stains from her face?
Her heart--her memory?
Who brought candles to her dungeon?
Who represented her at her funeral?

Not one was in her attendance…

Her heard their applause.
Accepted their passion.
Relished their praises laid in costume.

But at every nights’ end--in his chamber, he locked himself away.
And would fall into fitful slumber.

But wouldn’t remember his black rose divine…

At one last anguished cry, she breathed
Upon the roses of bush next to the fountain of youth,
Her gazed held longingly and lovingly upon the furls.
Her blood-stained, tear-worn hands reaching with effort,
‘Til at the last moment,
Her eyelids closed--;peacefully…
Her hands grasping the last rose…

Who has seen a picture of a black rose?
Who has held its’ thorns in their hand and not bled too?
Who has drank it’s juice and awakened in the morning?

Only one.
The Princely Samurai.
Yet he was ashamed.
Her beauty blinded his eyes;
And her purity overpowered his sanity.

Though she dies, next to that marble pool,
Under that old oak tree,
Beneath his golden balcony,
He noticed her not; as he watched her die.

Alas, from the barren rose bush,
Brown with thorns,
a rose plucked for eternity
From in the pool’s reflection,
Resembles a picture of His,

Black Rose Divine…

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