Black Rose of Repose

As I lie on a silken, wilted bed,
of illustrious ebony,
My thoughts turn to the inevitable,
death and senility.
The sheer pleasure of a bed of roses,
tickles my sick fancy.
Softness and warmth settle over me,
a feeling always chancy.
The sweet melancholay sound of a Nightingale,
serenades the inner harmonies of my soul.
As thoughts of demons and sweeter visions,
my mind takes me on a sleeping stroll.


Dedicated to Nightingale