black rose

Petals like leather, 
in the city's tomb.

No light, no sound, 
just the echo of bones.

Death's got a name, 
and it's carved in stones.

Thorns sharp as razors, 
withering,
withering, 
under the moon's cold frown.

Black rose rising up, 
as the sun goes down.

Ink-stained petals, 
with the night's own curse.

No prayers, no tears, 
just the wind's low moan.