Rose Requiem

In twilight's hush, where shadows softly fall, A vision emerges, veiled in mystic call. A maiden fair, with visage pale as stone, Her lips, a crimson whisper, alone. The roses, dark and secret, twine around, A wreath of mystery, a mystic bond. Her eyes, like night's dark veil, are closed in sleep, Yet, in the stillness, a tale they keep. The roses, red as passion's burning fire, Dance with her hair, a dark, sweet, heart's desire. In this tableau, a story unfolds, Of love, of loss, of dreams, and mystic gold. The roses whisper truths, of heart and soul, In this serene, yet passionate, mystic role. A moment frozen, in time's relentless flight, A beauty shines, in dark, and soft, pale light. The maiden's form, a canvas, pure and white, A work of art, a wondrous, mystic sight. In Rose Requiem, a tale is told, Of beauty, love, and mystic secrets, cold.