The Black Rose Turns Red

She walked alone in moonlit haze, A shadow wrapped in sorrow’s maze. Her raven hair, her kohl-lined eyes, Reflected storms in midnight skies. A heart once numb, cold as stone, A love unknown, a soul alone. A black rose clutched in fingers pale, A whispered sigh, a tragic tale. Then one dark night, beneath the rain, She met a boy who knew her pain. His lips were cracked, his gaze was deep, A silent vow he longed to keep. He saw her scars, she saw his too, Two shattered souls with shades of blue. He took her hand, their fingers laced, A warmth within, a fear embraced. The black rose quivered in her grasp, Its petals soft, a lover’s clasp. And as he spoke in voices low, The crimson blush began to grow. No longer lost in endless dread, Her withered black rose turned to red. For love had bloomed in sorrow’s place, A spark of light in dark’s embrace.