4 little poems
Mayhem Black Flower
Out deep in the forest, far and wide, there blooms a rose at vast mountains side. The weed so fair, so small and appealing to eye, its unnatural complexion alluring. From long distance It might appear dead with its dark as night peddles. But if you got close how wrong you would be. Odd as it is that a flower would be black but nevertheless, beauty it does not lack. It was very much alive. Its folded peddles droop down as the morning dew drips to the ground. What an attractive sight this was, for such a thing was rare to the world and could not be found in house or field, and for that I can give a reason. For although the rose is beautiful it is not to be touched, not to be picked in any season. If you were to unsettle the soil in which it grows, a spirit of the forest would come up from below. The spirit black like blossom it guarded, tall and thin, long rigid arms that reached almost to the ground. Hands large with what looked like fingers of glass. White eyes that glow, its whole body was wreathed in a pitch-black smoke. If you were the disturber of this land of old, let there be warning and a tale to be told. If you disrupt this soil and pick a rose for your pleasure your punishment that will be delt will be without measure. This spirit will come, it will not rest, until it has found you and drug you down to the depths. In every tale told there is a lesson to learn, if you see this plant while you walk on your path, away you should turn to avoid the spirits wrath.
