Flower of Death (07.00 am)

Not the rose with its velvet embrace,

Nor the lily, a symbol of grace,

This flower blooms where shadows creep,

A beauty born where darkness sleeps.

The nightshade whispers secrets old,

Its petals a midnight, stark and cold.

Beneath the moon's ethereal glow,

It flaunts its charm, a silent show.

Legends speak of a chilling curse,

A touch that brings an endless hearse.

A poison blooms within its core,

A beauty that can claim life's door.

Yet, some are drawn by its mystique,

A morbid allure, a danger unique.

The moth to the flame, a fatal flight,

Tempted by darkness, lost in the night.

The alchemist seeks its hidden lore,

A potion brewed to close death's door.

But power resides in a delicate hand,

For life and demise on a knife's edge stand.

The artist, consumed by beauty's hold,

Captures its essence, a story untold.

The flower's dark charm, a morbid muse,

A canvas stained with death's pale hues.

But beauty can bloom in the face of despair,

A reminder that life hangs by a thread, so rare.

The nightshade's poison, a potent cure,

Can mend the broken, a blessing obscure.

In battlefields stained with crimson tide,

The flower's essence, a balm to confide.

Easing the pain, a final goodbye,

A gentle slumber beneath a weeping sky.

Some see a harbinger of doom,

A symbol of sorrow, an echoing tomb.

But death's embrace, a peaceful rest,

A final exhale, a soul truly blessed.

The flower of death, a paradox untold,

A beauty that shivers, both fierce and cold.

A reminder that life and death intertwine,

In nature's dance, a delicate design.

For even the sun, a giver of life,

Casts long shadows in its daily strife.

The cycle continues, ever in bloom,

From darkness to light, escaping the tomb.

So let the nightshade stand tall and proud,

A beauty that chills, with a silent shroud.

A whisper of endings, a promise untold,

The flower of death, a story to be bold.