A black rose on my windowsill-
It was doomed to fail from the beginning
Smashed pieces of a vase lay around my bedroom, glass
across the floor, tearing my feet and making them
cry rusted crimson tears.
Among the shattered glass lays all
of your promises,
smashed like the vase.

The rose was withering and dying everyday, I just didn’t realize
that things that looked so pure and perfect
died so easily.
It started with the edges-
crimson once, they grayed and curled.

Then the whole rose began to shrivel, and a single touch
would crumble its petals into dust in your hands.
I noticed its digression and the way it turned black,
but it was far too late.

So I smashed its vase,
for it held too many memories
now tainted.
I left the pieces on the floor– that floor with too many childhood dreams
Built up on its foundation
all gone now.

I put that black rose, once living and scarlet,
on my windowsill.
I still watch it sometimes,
still remember what life was like
when that rose was alive,
and I mourn its death.

One good thing shall come out of this;
Someday, when I receive my rose, I won’t let it die
or whither or grey.
I won’t encase it in promises and vows
I cannot keep.
It will live until I no longer do.
I’ll succeed, just you wait and see.