Black Is The Rose

Black is the rose and rosy are the tears,
a trophy to those dreams running away.
Black is the rose and bright in its flares,
left to the mind's hurdles and the heart's sway.

Lovely, and none yet had it be seen,
settled on its nettles, awaiting the dream.
But the dream passed and nowhere to be seen,
yet the Sweet lies, with hopes, of some gleam.

Gentle is my Rosy, savior of my throb,
by my cheek, always, embracing these drops.
Burdened with loads, but with me it shall sob,
drop by drop, and that passion never stops.

Black is my rose, but who dares to care?
Black is the rose, and black is my affair.