Roses are red,

your fear is contagious.

two single drops of

blood will engage us,

enrage us,

outrageously blame us for sins 

committed before desire begins.

Violets are blue,

if it's true, what we're fed.

If overheard voices don't

go to your head,

then daisies stay yellow

and lilies stay white.

Pure as gardenias,

we blurred in the light,

'til the red stain of roses,

acute scent of blood,

obscured the horizon,

damp soil turned to mud.

With wilted petals, 

with obstructed sight,

our feared fight was fruitless.

We don't bloom at night.