A Bed Of Black Roses

By Stone Bryson

A cigarette… a Coca-Cola…

a poet in despairing pain.
A mind… a heart…

too empty to be sane.

Insecurities in life that never seem to fade,
to lay at night

and question god
"why was I ever made?"
I am the hair on mankind's head
that is always out of place.
If you don't believe…

just look into my face.

With all my aching, breaking, loveless poses,
lay me down to rest...
a bed of black roses.

A savior… a woman…

she tries to teach me love.
Stubborn… selfish…

I cannot heed the dove.

Many women have tried - all have failed to hold,
they lay beside

and question me,
"how can you be so cold?"
I wish, just once, I could look into eyes
and say "I love you" again,
but this empty heart will never be able
to do as it once did.

With all my aching, breaking, loveless poses,
lay me down to rest...
a bed of black roses.

A candle… a hatred…

they both are burning bright.
Love… life…

they simply aren't in sight.

I cannot look and see sunshine when all there is - is rain.
I think of women

and question me
"they’ve been my only pain."
I am the crack in a broken heart
and this will never change,
if you fall in love with me you will lose - 
you will not gain.

With all my aching, breaking, loveless poses,
lay me down to rest...
a bed of black roses.

Copyright © 2003 Stone Bryson.  All Rights Reserved.

Written October 1985

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