Roses

Roses are red, like the inside of your eyelids.
Fragments of dreams and memories swimming behind them.
Seeds planted with high hopes, Start to wither in winter.
Then are re-imagined in the spring.
Red, like the first drop of passion spilt. Like struggle, madness, – all but sadness.
Sadness only arrives in hues of the deepest blue, gives birth to perils in your head.
What a simple gift, that roses are red.