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Died red

O rose, Black rose,
how I can not let go,
I grip your pointed ends,
and even as red falls from my wounds,
I can only grip tighter
The red falls, and creates a mirror image,
of you, black rose, died red

The sweet aroma of you, Death Rose,
Drifts above our heads,
as we wander, aimlessly,
through streets died red.

Submitted: Monday, July 20, 2009


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