From Red Roses to Black
Once upon a time, there was a empire's prime, A kingdom of white and blue. And sat at its throne, Tired and alone, The Holy Queen, her head bent low. Closing her eyes, She remembered a time, Where she loved something just too much. A rose of red, Trying for white-blue, A rose that wanted to be Queen. Although this rose was ignorant and selfish, The Holy Queen loved her, For that was her wish. That red color shone, for all to see, Yet was vulnerable, lost and weak. The rose wanted to be like the other roses, White, Pure and Unstained. So in its attempt, To be like the rest, the Rose had shed its bud. The Holy Queen came to her garden one day, And saw the rose, dismayed. While asking the Rose "Why red no more?", The Rose had grown a thorn. And from that thorn, grew so many thorns, And eventually, Red turned Black. From Vulnerable to Caustic, from Pure to Tainted, This Rose was stained with a shimmering Noir. The Queen cried out, in such heartbreak, "Why, why the change?" "Why, why the facade?" And for once in its life, the Rose had replied, "I can't let them know how weak I am." A rose that used to stand on its own, So beautiful, so frail, so terrified of the unknown, Had poisoned herself, had locked up her soul, And had become the fake-guarded Black. The Queen was upset, the queen had cried, The queen had screamed and shout. She took her sheers and cut the rose, A painful and hurtful task. And while she thought about discarding the rose, The Queen had quietly prayed. That maybe one day, this Rose will change, From Black to its beautiful Rouge. So The Queen took the Rose, And put it to her heart. The thorns had drawn blood, The rose had stayed Black. The Queen hopes that one day the Rose will turn, For she misses her, And hopes she misses her too.
