Dark Roses

An anomaly, I have to say,

the blooms that now upon me lay.

I’ve seen red and blue and pink and white,

but black? Never.

A bow of golden satin string

goes about them like a ring.

A piece of happiness and joy

so contrasting.

Although I know you meant it well,

it does me better not to dwell

on all the things that made you choose

dark roses.

Perhaps if I was still alive,

I could try to make them thrive

as it is, they will slowly whither

and die.

There will not be a funeral for them.

Instead someone will condemn

a bundle of dried blossoms

to compost.

My heart will go out in sorrow,

and I will hope that by the morrow

they will be taken back and returned

to my hands.