Dripping from the Rose
as though the flower itself had been wounded.
In my hand, the Blood oozed from its stem;
a glowing stream of red
fell upon the Rosebed.
There was nothing like this shade of red;
richer than your mom's dark nailpolish
softer than your aunt's red lipstick,
stronger than your pumping heart,
yet more delicate than a baby's toes.
as though the flower itself had been wounded.
In my hand, the Blood oozed from its stem;
a glowing stream of red
fell upon the Rosebed.
There was nothing like this shade of red;
richer than your mom's dark nailpolish
softer than your aunt's red lipstick,
stronger than your pumping heart,
yet more delicate than a baby's toes.
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