Each black rose feels like a piece of heaven that died and turned out black.
Each black rose smells like a piece of you that I loved and left between the stardust.
Each petal of black rose is my silky flesh that I peel off my buttery bones.
Each rose tastes like water, neutral, simple, like I forgot to add moonlight water.
Each black rose looks like a dream, a dream I never dreamt, but it's always in my heart.
Each of that makes my garden of black roses that grow in the moist sand of my mind.
Don't pluck them they hurt, hurt my mind, then hurt my heart, then hurt my soul.
That's the garden of black roses haunted by the skeletons of lost spirits.