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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 stranger’s 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 woman’s 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 forest’s illusions.

“ Who are you?”

“ I am, a sage of shadows. Keeper of illusions, guider to the Muse’s 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 lover’s 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 can’t 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 can’t 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.”