A black rose was held loosely,
The fingers did not move, though,
the thorns pricked the skin.
Eyes stared wide, from a
long dark veil,
His best piece of work, this
real still life.
She was a reluctant model,
but after much persuasion,
Soon saw things his way, and
was happy to pose for him.
Her fingers not moving,
Loosely holding a black rose.