Cursed Thorns

In the darkness concealed, lurking at my door,

Misfortune takes the form of eighteen red roses.

Chalices brimming with blood, brought from hell's depths,

Destruction within their petals, and spirits' prophecies.

I scattered their petals like rain in tombs,

In the same cemetery where dreams lie hidden.

Promises burned, forgotten in crypts,

Drenched in the shadow of evil, like dark specters.

Cursed flowers sprout from the corpse-laden earth,

Beauty in their innocence, deceitful and false.

Eyes exhaling death, frozen in a single gaze,

Appearing alive, only to transform into dark mist.

I hold the thorns, blades of my despair,

Piercing my fingers, drowning in torment.

Crimson drips, a stream from my hands,

A symbol of anguish, submerged in the nocturnal rainbow.

He thinks he can win me over with illusory beauty,

Unaware that my heart beats to a different rhythm.

If only he could listen to the whispers of darkness,

He would hear hell calling to me in silence.