When a dark rose calls for rain,
Why are my tears those that fall?
Why do I feel like I'm constricted by a chain,
When clearly I'm just trapped among walls.
The drops caress the rose so gently,
A sort of touch they themselves crave,
But each time, remind themselves mentally,
That they mustn't dig their own grave.
And when the drops touch the ground,
The dark rose calls again but only,
This time, who come without a sound,
Through the wind, passing slowly.
Grazing what we may call her cheeks,
Ever so softly, gazing at her heart,
When the drops rise and try to seek,
What they lacked, for disdain from such art.
And receiving only an answer in the form,
Where the cotton buds in the wind are so light,
And they have the drops all apart torn,
Not letting them have the pleasure of such a flight.
They call for the dark rose again with a low tone,
But the dark rose is already content,
Away, in the light that through shone,
Clouds cleared, turning to the ground to vent.
Why such unfairness, wise old Earth?""
She claims they're special, which they don't believe,
With all the malevolence had they got hurt,
They need their own serenity retrieved.
We give others so much, and in the end,
We don't give ourselves enough,
So they try to describe our worth and mend,
And we roll in the dust, stones hard and rough.
And the Earth embraces them with so much warmth,
My children, if they're not, I'm still here,""
And they attempt a smile but their sad wrath,
Prevents them to think anyone cares.
Because they tried hard so many times,
But never received from the dark rose the same,
Or even at them thrown a dime's worth lime,
Left so lost, they find themselves as those to blame.
//The Dark Rose//