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Description
A stranger holds a withered rose
In such a place to match the death
And stirs its petals brown and dry
With every still and mocking breath
Red lips quiver, wet and dark
And brown eyes blink to dry a tear
And though he holds her by the hand
It's just as if he were not here
The sky is dead, the earth is grey
And she herself is but the rose
Held in his hand, so very sad
A beauty caught up in the throws
Her dress is dull, her skin is white
For color is no more, no more
And he who holds her, clad in black
She calls her lover nevermore
Betwixt the dirt and sky above
He sleeps beneath the coldest stone
And she who stands and holds his hand
Can never feel but for alone