Pure Black - poem

 

In this garden where they lay,

Red roses of perfection so they say.

The most pure red you’ll ever find,

But the most cold hearts of any kind.

The gardener pleased with what he saw,

Every day he looked and saw no flaw.

He kept the garden neat and clean,

No better garden, have you seen.

One night when all were sleeping,

A stranger in the garden was creeping.

The blackest black just like the night,

It was a strange but beautiful sight.

Morning came just like it had,

The other roses awoke quit mad.

For among the purest of their red,

Was this black rose, instead.

The gardener much to their demise,

Was very pleased with this surprise.

He called his friends to see this sight.

As the other roses prepared to fight.

Their jealousy took hold,

And their hearts grew colder than cold.

And one night when all should be sleeping,

The roses started sneaking,

Kill the rose is what they’ll do,

To put their garden back to new.

The one more beautiful than the rest,

They got rid of their little pest.

Morning came just like it had,

For what they’d done, they were not sad.

The gardener awoke and what he saw,

This time he looked and saw their flaw.

In this garden where they laid,

Red roses of perfection, they did fade.

The blackest black you’ll ever find,

Dead roses everywhere of every kind.

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