The Black Rose

How can something so dark
As a black rose,
Be considered beautiful
When one is writing prose?

Why is it that when one
Puts a pen to pad,
The rose must have a meaning,
Whether good or bad?

Why can't we look upon it,
And see what eyes behold
Instead of looking deeper
For a story to be told?

What is it that happens
When we look upon this flower--
Time seems to cease;
Love seems to cower.

But can we not just once
Look on with eyes of child
And see the rose as rose,
With textures soft and mild:

See the rose as rose,
With colors bold and true;
Not while finding secrets
Within its darkest hue.

Know the rose as rose,
And love its simple song--
Hear the words for what they are,
Don't stretch them out too long.

Misinterpreting its form
Is not very hard to do.
I do not judge the rose
As I judge not you.

You should return the favor:
Not to me, but to the rose;
Don't remember what its song means--
Remember how it goes.