Black Roses

9 Comments

Tags:
  • Dark Poetry

    Black Roses

    You're hauntingly familiar
    your words fall down like rain,
    darken corners of my mind
    still you remain.

    Pulling me deeper then I've ever went
    driving me further still,
    taking me home tonight,
    blood thirsty for the kill.

    Eyes crying drops of blood,
    why do you call my name?
    when all is lost and I'm not there
    still you remain.

    Pulling me deeper the I've ever went
    driving me further still,
    taking me home tonight,
    taking pleasure in your kill.

    Black roses left outside my gate
    giving heed to your call,
    I reach for you but you're not there
    did you call at all?

    Empty bed we once shared,
    tossed away in vain,
    still you remain.

    Pulling me deeper then I've ever went
    driving me further still,
    taking me home tonight
    there's nothing left to kill.

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    Stardrift commented on Black Roses

    08-12-2009

    To me this sounds like a recurring lucid nightmare. One seemingly so real that residual guilt can be felt the next morning. This poem really does move like one is being stalked. PG erotica - new genre - fun for the whole family? Lol! Where's the light switch? Dark write!!
    Reply to Comment

    Rocetman commented on Black Roses

    07-28-2009

    a splendid dark poem, your words lead the mind as if in a trance, perfect form for the subject.. it felt stony cold as I read it. I enjoy your writing. Roc
    Reply to Comment

    miwall513 commented on Black Roses

    07-08-2009

    Dark and sexy romantic and scary what a great salad
    Reply to Comment

    ginga commented on Black Roses

    06-21-2009

    Like a phantom this poem haunts me. Keep up the great story-telling. Ginga
    Reply to Comment

    BlackKnightOS commented on Black Roses

    05-23-2009

    Yes, another dark poem. I think I feel an idea for a story for Shine, a vampire one. Hmmm, I have to think on it. Once again, well written. :o)
    Reply to Comment

    If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

    Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) American poet.

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