The Black Rose

As I look down from my perch,
I see the children laughing.
Hiding their hidden fears and dreams.
Each one a puppet of a failing society,
Whose strings have become twisted and tangled.
They all wear a living mask of lies,
And I watch as they cry behind it.
Still, I will watch as they wither,
Like the petals of a week old rose,
Whose duty as a symbol of affection fails,
And the two whom it represents fade away.
I will watch as the petals fall to the dusty floor,
Like so many lost loves, and I will laugh.
For I am the thorns of that dying rose,
And as it dies I merely grow harder and sharper.
And those who get too close will bleed.