Roses are red, in shadows they bloom,

A garden of echoes, a foreboding tomb.

Beneath the moon's pale, haunting glow,

Whispers of sorrow, the roses do know.

Thorns pierce the night, a sinister waltz,

Dancing with phantoms in ethereal schmaltz.

Petals like blood, a morbid ballet,

Where lost souls linger, in disarray.

A bouquet of crimson, a macabre array,

Each bloom holds secrets, a dark cabaret.

In the garden of dusk, where specters convene,

The roses tell tales of the unseen.

Silent and twisted, their stems intertwine,

A tapestry of horrors, a sinister design.

As the midnight wind weaves through the decay,

The roses chant dirges of the astray.

In this realm of shadows, where nightmares take flight,

The roses bleed darkness, in the pallid moonlight.

A haunting sonnet of petals so dread,

In the garden of red, where the macabre is fed.