the yawning swamp is very old
and the muck and mire of summers heat
a worrisome thing for the swamp evermore
when August heat is at its peak
stately oaks, knobby cypress
centuries old offer shade as respite
inside the swamp deep
a lone black rose surveys its surroundings
the black rose; sad, sad, and alone
its history; tragic love, blood was spilt
on the spot where the black rose
once the pinkish, red color of love
sings its mournful song of that blood-spattered day
of lovers true until they were not
when she led him to the killing spot
where her lover hid and waited
overnight the red, red rose
metamorphosed into the black rose of today
at night its petals open for the moon
when day comes it shutters down and waits for night
if you chance upon the black rose
run, leave the place of warm red blood
before you do look closely and you will see
a single red tear on the side of the black rose
a remembrance of that dreadful day
as you run from that awful place
you will hear whispers, you will hear screams
nightmarish in scope
 
©July 6, 2012 / Jerry Pat Bolton