The Black Rose
What I once called lovely,
When it was in its provisional stage,
When I dedicated my world to it,
Until it seized me in its cage.
That black rose, one of a kind,
Reminded me of my flaws,
In it, I saw the real fact,
And that’s when the world stopped.
The truth was petrifying,
In the form of a flourishing black rose,
Looking like the shadowy dream,
Where the world entirely froze.
The truth is that the rose blooms,
And the dark petals burst to wind or dust,
And when nothing is left, someone remembers,
The word illusion is the synonym of trust.
By: Reyansh Bhimrajka
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