the virgin

grovel
my black roses
needed rain
to soothe the pain
of my roots

they twist and turn
hanging my child
imagination
suffocating

a creature
ashen scarred
and wishing
the leaves should
have some dew


jump off into
my dirt, moisturise
my seed and turn
my heart to stone

I will not lose me
when I grow
if you find my
garden grave
please, lover
do pick my black rose