by C. Ikpoh
A rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet; as sweet as black sugarcoated perfumes tantalizing the senses. It is the night sky fallen upon the day’s prettiest hour. Immortality defiant in the face of death incarnate. Black Rose.
None are so beautiful as the Reaper's gift. The rich breath of the afterlife possesses each pedal. Beauty and fear are married in each thorn. Who are we to deny its passion for alluring our eyes in amazement? We cannot resist the magnetic pulsation of its blooming. Like shockwaves permeating through the air, an enigma is born with each bud, and the answer lies within the last scent all will ever paint their nostrils with. Black Rose.
In the garden, angels and demons sing in harmony, welcoming us to frolic amongst the flower of ravens. The deepest violet cannot rival its color. Space has seeped into its genome, allowing a single star to reflect off the light. It is just enough to illuminate our curiosity, to tempt us into the soil, drained of its natural dark coloring. The flower feeds off a nocturnal energy, growing underneath the palest of moonlights. Who we are when we are gone is in it. Black Rose.
It is the symbol of the 25th hour. When the heavens part in conjunction with the earth and the trumpets sound, they will sprout from beneath each soul's soles. The air will be riddled with the scent of rich molasses. Tongues will be saturated with sweetness in every inhalation. Velvet fabric woven together by seedlings will comfort the feet of the weary, resting their spirits by soothing the pressure from holding a lifetime of existence on their shoulders. So much strength in a simple thing. One color to rule us all in the end. Each flower a glimpse into Revelation. We are here to listen to their song: a tale of dreams realized and nightmares forgotten...
A rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet. Black Rose.