The black roses grow,
Though the world is bleak, buried beneath this vivid snow.
The cold is dreary, it pawns the old. Shivering the soul in travels among the bold.
Seeking for reason to unfold but fright brings concern when one with-holds.
Keeping buds from being exposed in harsh realities told.
A sight of fearful eyes gaze in the empty rolls of the sold
Weary in breath for they have given up control.
Looking for reason to continue to scold.
For rigid has their stem become.
Crooked and holed, like translucent souls, invisible to all.
But pain exists in the thresh of it all. Ruptured hearts fall like rain drops of clouds that hang tall
A drizzle of hope is open but the darkness becomes its anvil.
Weighted it cries, a cracked skull and it becomes dull.
Vanishing to the awful the angled skew of nonsensical babble.
Leaving tongues spread in a hull of deception as weaving breaths of the miserable confess.
But concede with little honesty.
They are boastful in their agony.