The Black rose does not shine,
Born out of ill intention.
Watered with vile waters,
And tended with pure contempt.
The Black rose is a mark of deceit,
Blooms through words of the opinionated.
Adorns the face of scorn and hate,
Charred in the heat of the plot
The Black rose was not born like this,
It was born inky and rare.
The crowd saw it as unique,
And so began the scoffing taunts.
The Black rose saw the game,
It saw the lessons of power.
It was too late by then,
For garden and yonder knew it.
The Black rose saw the doings of fate,
And the tears were now dew.
The essence of evil and detest
Had now distilled.