He sat in the silence that had become so easy to abandon a dream in, another rose held in his hand.
Beware of plucking the black rose from the strangers garden. A voice behind him warned.
He turned, if slightly, to study who dared to interrupt his careful meditation.
And where the white face of a womans wrath emerge from the black pool, be wary of it.
There were only shadows; a sage perhaps of the dark wisdom of many lives.
And what do you know fool?
He was old, he was tired, he had lived through all the wars without a love.
I know plenty. Perhaps to much. Will help me find my mirror? He asked, eyes glistening with suspicion.
Mirror? He question, calculating that time it will take to regain his lost song.
Yes, the one that goes to the broken tower.
The broken tower? What do you know of that?
The old man turned, his cape across his figure, his nose held proudly in the air.
I told you. I know plenty.
Arrogant, dreamer of the forests illusions.
Who are you?
I am, a sage of shadows. Keeper of illusions, guider to the Muses Eyes.
He turned away. I have no reason to help you.
I know your fate, I know of the woman you love, but can never have. Tell me about her, then I shall go.
The wind whispered to the trees, and the owl answered back. He whispered as they stood in silence.
She always makes apple pie, and forgets to put in the sugar, then whispers how bitter life is.
She forgets to cast her net out into the sea, and another few drown.
She lives to a book about life, and then fantasizes about death.
She can give me breath, but she sits there without a regret.
She powerful and light like water, but she loves a black flame.
She can weave the tales of the moon, so bright, but welcomes that dark side each night.
She can tell the truth and be innocent, but whisper lies and smile of deceit.
Her kiss is so soft and fulfilling, but her passion filled eyes suffocate and leave a man empty.
She loves that ones who are alive, and always watches those who are dead.
She has poetry in her body, taut with a lovers touch you draw back from a poison.
Her love is an wine meant to be savored, and her tears are a poison meant to sip.
She can make a man hate her, but then make him want her and her love some more.
She can draw the bow, and sing like an angel, but her arrow breaks, and she cant fly.
Her moan is a caress, her whisper a song, that keep you up all night long.
Her scent is an aphrodisiac, her demons hungry for blood.
She faces a million demons, and always winds up alone.
To drink from her is eternal life, and to turn away is the whisper of death.
She has watched the ancient wars, learned their techniques, and lost some many battles.
She can wander aimlessly and always know where she is.
She cant fly, but can change her wings from silver to black.
She is everyone and everything, but you can never see her because of her mask.
She makes me laugh, I watch her cry, she gives me life, I let her die.
Sometimes she can fly with golden wings, she is my end, she is my origin.
She is so pure, yet she is my sin.
The old man nodded, gathering his robes, and trodden off.
She is my heart, she is my rose.
He looked down at the broken rose in his hand.
She is like a black rose, dark and soft as a petal, and she can be hungry for blood like a thorn.