Autumn’s chill crept over the
glorious Summer of her heart.
Sweet kiss of pink drained
from the face of love
as thorns sprang up like
daggers to cut into her soul.
Crimson flooded her being as
she faced the icy Winter
of his Indifference.
Awaiting death, she longed to bury
her pain beneath the dry
brown carpet of decaying hope.
Sweet torture! that wound which
does not heal lest
its life be thought in vain.
No death, passing into love born anew-
No blush of pink, no green glory
basking in the light of Spring’s happy smile.
Forever crimson, ancient sorrow
for love lost to her now-
she burns as fire upon the fresh carpet of
I bleed for you with every sunrise-
and refuse to die.