Black Roses

He gave her roses by the plenty,
She fancied them for they weren't just any,
They were as dark as the night,
And yet as familiarly trite,
But still nonetheless full of envy.

Their petals were delicate and dim,
Almost black and so vaguely grim,
They reeked of hatred,
And lustfully desecrated
Her heart into the art of being prim.

They were not roses that attested love,
Or of lust or of anything similar thereof,
But they were sent as a warning,
Used for its adorning
Beauty, a gift to be disposed of.