Excerpt From The Book: My Own Hold this black rose, my sweet. It is a token of my love for you, though I know your heart is false. Gently cup the tender bloom, its silken folds in your grasp. I give it to you willingly, though you care for it not. You smile at me, your treachery all too clear. You hold my heart, my love, my own black rose. And I know not what cruel machinations cross your mind as you hold it in your hands. I lean closer and kiss you gently on the cheek, clasping your soft hands in mind, pressing them tightly together. You gasp as the thorns sink into your open hands and your blood trickles through my fingers. I whisper softly into your ear, as the poisoned spines dig into your flesh. Whispering, oh so softly, as the deadly liquid courses through your veins, "My sweet love, hold onto my own black rose." The World Goes By The world goes by, as I travel down the road. The world goes by, as we travel, He and I. Warm sunshine upon the fields and children playing. Faintly scented breezes from the lilac grove by the stream. Kindly church bells echoing from the heaven-pointed steeple. The world goes by, as I travel down the road. Gentle raindrops fall, caressing the cheeks of whomever smiles back at them. Cool zephyrs slip by, bearing along the perfume of distant gardens. Quiet laughter as lovers walk together along the street. The world goes by, as I travel down the road. The world goes by, as we travel, Death and I. The Roses Blooming Morning light gleaming, bending in prismic patterns through the winter window pane and scattering about the bedroom, where she lies a'bed, staring out the window at the light snowfall, falling gently from the placid grey heavens. Her garden, beneath the window, lies blanketed by snow. similarly she is covered by soft white blankets as she lies a'bed. Her pillow is embroidered with roses. Cherry red, like her once sanguine cheeks. Now her beautiful face is white as the snow, which falls outside her bedroom window. And she watches as best she can, from her bed of snowy cushions. In the garden, just below her gaze, despite the cold, bloom white roses, as pale as the snow, that blankets them in the morning light. 'Illumination Without Light' - Christopher Aaron Join The Revolution www.rev-press.com