The night falls, I know who actually I am.
4th of April, 2019
The moon, in their mournful grace, was wondrous fair—
Yet when mine eyes dared meet they pallid gaze,
Their light, too tender, fell as silken sorrow
Upon the fragile vessel of my skin.
In mirth once fleeting, I did pen these lines,
When blossoms, long imprisoned, dared unfold.
Yet lo—
The firmament grew heavy, draped in grief,
Whilst candlelight within the chamber waned and trembled.
I left them seated at the supper board,
Their stares akin to loathing most profane—
As though I were some lifeless, rotting thing
Laid bare upon their sanctified repast.
And thus I spake..
Words they deemed a heresy of soul,
A grievous sin confessed without remorse.
I named myself—
Not as a blemish ‘pon their hallowed garden,
But as a bloom miscalled, misunderstood.
A sable rose;
Concealed beneath the pallor not mine own,
Adorned in hues that never did belong.
They prattled on of nature’s sacred law:
“That no rose may forsake its given shade.”
Yet none did pause to ponder—
Why I should languish, fade, and slowly perish
Within a guise that was not wrought for me.
Why was I thus conceived?
Still, the rose endureth..
Alone it standeth, unbowed ‘neath weeping skies,
Whilst rain doth kiss its thorns without remorse,
And Luna, in his silent vigil,
Doth cleanse what man hath dared defile.
