Red roses lay perfectly still
against a wall of concrete
pouring out colors of the bleeding hearts—
singers with their songs of love,
and saddened poets with verses of loneliness
and finally you, staining my life with your red tears
which explode on fresh linen, ghostly white
become footprints of our history together,
a path that leads us to the bitter end.
It is true, all things fade
the strong become weak
and memories become diluted in time
remembered as only images of red wine and lipstick,
everything related to love—
but not the lack of it, as fire consumes
and the Devil, who recreated St. Valentines Day
one cold morning in nineteen hundred twenty-nine
making crooked cupids stinging arrow,
and forever keeping the red roses
from being truly red.
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