Black Roses

Days of tango music and black roses; not real black, rather midnight red, old blood black and I have lost my soul. Or, I have not lost it as much as I danced away; left it in pieces, fallen from me; brittle leaves and faded petals scattered on a glossy hard wood floor.
I left my soul at the black rose bush and it dripped into the ground. My own vein's water grew thorns and splattered up into the sky; delicate flowers, dark and rare. The black rose: beauty, death. Beauty from the abyss, beauty from dirt, beauty from nothing.
I wanted to walk with no clothes, not naked, but dressed in card board; draped in drab, completely disposable. Ephemeral; a single season seed. I wanted to be true to myself. I wanted to be a gift to this world, wrapped in tissue paper and ribboned, when I entered here.
Still, I searched for the fragments of my soul. Quiet and still I looked with clouded eyes.
The pieces returned in solitary drops from the endless sky and wet my cheeks; tears of gratitude running into my heart. Tears from blind eyes, filling an ancient dry sea; painting it green and wild. A vast field of roses from bleached bone. Sweet fragrance sent to soothe the sightless.