The Black Rose Queen

In the realm of hearts, where passions reign,

There a black rose queen with a heart of disdain.

Her jester, a man of jest and mirth,

Bound to her whims, seems destined from birth.

When her brow would furrow, the world must halt,

As she wields her emotions, with a thunderous vault.

The jester dances, to a delicate ballet,

Appeasing her whims, night and day.

"It's simpler to yield," the jester sighs,

As he sees her tears, and hears her cries.

"She's never at fault," he sadly concedes,

As he tends to her needs, fulfilling her leads.

But one fateful day, a challenge appears,

With a gleam in it's eye, and no trace of fears.

It captures her gaze, her heart aflutter,

Leaving the jester in a state of utter.

Game over, he thinks, as he watches them dance,

The queen's attention on a new romance.

For he knows within, deep to his core,

He was a puppeteer's toy, nothing more.

So heed this warning, all who dare,

To enter such kingdoms, to play in such lairs.

For the black rose queen plays a dangerous game,

She'll leave you broken, in sorrow and shame.

-Hermit King-