Burnt Rose

Pick the darkest petal of my rose,

Where crimson dies in black,

Where the silken sheen is like a bruise

On a skin, unadulterated.

Hold it up to the light,

Where the sun might burn it.

Turn it to ash, like it’s destined to be.

Spread that ash underneath your pillow

And dream of the beauty now dead.

Published in The News Weekly Magazine – Us

26th August, 2011

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