I leaned in to kiss my ghost,
poof! She’s nothing but smoke.

The hearth was cold,
my soul lay under its toe,
six feet under,
deep thoughts plunder into
darkness and thunder.

My soul cried out,
as whispers came from these depths,
where rotting flower’s once grew.

Black rose’s are a sign of death.
Its perfume reminds us
of the lives we’ve lived.

Poor black rose,
never had a chance
to become a living thing.

No signs of life,
no heartbeat,
no breath was left for me.

Ash’s is all there will be,
for death always returns with a vase
of black rose’s just for me.

His shadow danced on my tombstone,
As Nosferatu kissed my cheek,
death asked me for a dance,
sadly I declined because I am
the lover of a poetic tongue,
a gambler of words.

Death is nothing more than serpentine.

© By Amanda D Shelton