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.