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The Rose That is My Heart

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My heart is black as darkest night
And cold as a winter day.
Shall I compare it to a rose,
Both black and shriveled,
Icicles protruding from its pedals.
Never to blossom,
Only to wither
And die.
Shall I compare the sorrow and anger
Within my heart
To a storm of clouds
That enshroud the rose in total darkness.
Shall I compare the loneliness
That has hardened my heart
To a vast plain of snow and ice
That surrounds the rose.
Cold and unloved,
The rose shall stand,
Crooked and brittle,
Soon to break
And soon to die.
This is my heart
Which is black as darkest night
And cold as a winter day.





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