Gestures of wounds, my dark life unfound so bound in the shadows of grey mists
Treasures of pure gentleness, sounds so well curbed deeply within the black roses
Slaving dreams in voyages of my infinite joy, and all my thoughts shattering in my close sight.
My core being in agony, seeds of my peevish wisdom and all my laid scattered visions
Breaking thoughts of my forever sadness, valleys of pain and domes of dizziness and confusions
Spreading speeds of my emptiness, and fading nights of my judgment in my own wars and fray.
These all remind me of black roses that flew and died of desire within the wise verses of profound prose.
These modify and mold this day of termination of black roots, the day of red roses and new beginnings.
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Comments about this poem (Black Roses by Sicelo Sithole )
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