Within the Garden of Obsidian Petals

Behind my ribs I built a silent garden, sealed from the brutal glare of day, Where no decree of this merciless, earth can trespass or decay. The world beyond is iron and indifferent flame, Its laughter edged with ruin, its mercy thin as rain. So I retreat to corridors of inward shade, Where blackened roses rise in funereal parade. In that secluded orchard of onyx light, Sorrow softens into velvet night. Within the garden of obsidian petals I remain, Crowned by sable blossoms falling like a gentle rain. Each darkened fragment drifts upon my skin, A hush of shadow drawing inward, deep within. No footsteps echo on the gravel of this mind, No cruel horizon hunts the fragile or the kind. Only the perfume of a dusk no dawn can sever, And glossy thorns that promise “Here, forever.” Their lacquered leaves reflect a starless sky, A cathedral wrought where broken spirits lie. I breathe the quiet as if it were prayer, While somber petals gather in my hair. The outer tempest dwindles to a distant cry, As ebon fragments drift from unseen sky. Inside this sanctuary of jet-black bloom I stay, Enthroned where coal-dark corollas gently sway. Each silken shard descends without a sound, A tender eclipse settling all around. Encircled by a sable, shimmering veil, My pulse and phantom roses intertwine and pale. Within the garden of obsidian petals I abide, Where raven roses fold the fractured world aside. Their midnight rain enwraps my fragile frame, And turns my solitude to something almost flame. Thus hidden in this somber, shining keep, I fall through velvet darkness into sleep