Roses are red,
Blood stain calling,
Howling secrets of the dead.
Roses are red,
These blank pages
are homes to haunted
spirits,
Basking in solitude of
ink bottles are their
hurt and misfortunes,
Miserly voices and
fried vocals,
Blank pages still blank,
Void of lines unwritten
from regret words unsaid.
Roses are red,
Mind is an elevated
cloud that rains
turbulence,
Where million-dollar
ideas sink in the
boundless ocean of
thought,
And timelessly resurface
after decades,
Fossilized like skeletons
awashed in the heat
of sun but wasted.
Roses are red,
Our heart bleeds from
betrayals,
And like cries of newborn
it pierces the heart
of a silent night,
This whistle of discord
announces a reunion
of disasters,
broken but sharp pieces
as from a fallen jar
to once again
be wholly united.
Roses are red,
As muses burn, ink splatter
And like sunset to nightfall
summons raw emotions
still trapped behind
walls of the eye,
Tears like fairytale
wishes, never down
to earth,
Tales of expectations
and realities,
Journey down a path
of lifelong anxiety,
Grotesque cut to the heart
while it bleeds,
Paint me a way out in
drenched feather,
An escape for this waning soul?
Roses are red,
Maybe roses bled,
And drowns repeatedly
in a bloody silence,
If what cannot speak
can’t be hurt,
Perhaps logic was never
enough,
Hatred is a soothing fire
to the appalled and men of hubris,
And love is just as toxic
if surrounded by conditionals,
Clinging makes a perfect
recipe for disaster,
With dejection slowly
unveiling in lightning flashes,
Roaring thunders echoing
heaven’s cry,
Who says no trouble in paradise?
By @aduragbemi
Erinkitola Aduragbemi
31st December 2020