Cold red roses like
when the tips  turn  black and
the edges start  to  wither. His
fury — words   of   ice.   These
shattered  illusions  of   subtle
situations  gone  astray.  He  is
the  read  betweens.  He­ is the
metaphor that lingers.  It  cuts
deep and this time there is no
going back.

© A. Leigh