The black rose,
laying on the white table,
with water drops on each pedal,
from the night where a storm started,
strong it's root deep it stranded,
the rain washed down it came,
yet not a single damaged it caused,
the morning where the sun was burning,
water all it dry but the rose still damp,
it was call the rose of death,
to me it is the rose of a survivor.
lee sharon
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-black-rose-4/
