Onyx

The day has come
to ask the former one
to spend a rare commodity,
her time. O! the extent of my idiocy.
She isn't allowed she retorts,
She is busy, she replies.
She does not hear my heart cry.
Her excuses are pitiful
Their opacity is bold.
I don't know why I care
When she is too scared to bare
the thought of me, to care.
Her show of love to me is rare.
My heart is bare
Far away in another's hand
a rose whithers into onyx sand
from the soot sprouts a new stem.