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Poetry
A Rose in The Midnight
Atharva Rewatkar
In the darkest garden of void
where gloom sheds its dew
over the only rose that stood
sensing the midnight it knew
with its plush petals, blood-red
but reeked in the tints of rue.
Like a ghost in the morn n' dusk
with eyes like stars grown dim,
He watched me like a tombstone
and spoke of a love so grim
with a voice like a wooing melody,
dawdled me to lug unto him.
The rose, like a cursed sentinel,
hovered like a widowed bride
as souvenirs of a love forlorn
started to creep and bleed inside.
The rose heaved to the breeze
as though its heart had died.
I reached to pluck the bloom
but its thorns pierced my skin
and as blood-stained my hands
I felt his visage breathe within;
his lips and mine did gently touch
for a kiss to be born out of sin.
He took me to the fringes of dreams
where horrors find their home,
there we kissed on the graves of love
with nothing left to bid me roam
The rose, he laid it on my chest,
with its fragrance now a tomb.
Then the Moon slowly withdrew its veil
but he did not depart.
His thoughts remained in me
and tied themselves to my heart
The rose at midnight, stained in blood
will never tear apart.