The First Pale Shade

It was the white rose that was painted red,

a glowing winter under a curtain of crimson,

almost blood-like in its arrogance,

its triumph over silver vein.

To hold and touch these blossoms,

ignorant to the betrayal that took place,

Alice saw, with drops of terrible dye,

is to wake anew the rose’s memory

of its first pale shade, ’til the

white hiding beneath its flesh

cries out in tortured silence,

muted in sound but

materialized in thorn.


6 thoughts on “The First Pale Shade

Thoughts? I love those.

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