The Untamed Rose

In the moonlight, the rose looks black.
Darkness kneels around it in worship,
Like a veil, a shadow of beauty.
And its thorns, like knives, gleam.
Rose, the last flower, of a warrior tribe.
Stars and butterflies, clap their wings,
For the pansies that bloom for sweet delight.
But you want a deeper shade of desire.
A solitary vase.
Against the sombre, of your bedroom wall.
The perfect grave, for a burning rose.
A spark to ignite,
The dead colors of your night.
But roses are ferocious.
They're intense and wild.
It will take more than a lover, to get them down.
You will have to become, a hunter.

Tuhin Gupta
Rilke's Epitaph, "Rose, oh pure contradiction, delight of being no one's sleep under so many lids."

Thundering Waltz
I "Applaud" your poem just here! Your vocabulary catches my eyes and anything to do with roses, well yes :) This will be a favorite of mine, ~Abby