Desiccated red like a rose picked apart
By the sort of angry young man who would tear the wings off a butterfly
Red speaks to me in a cracked voice.
She was a sultry with a temper.
Now her skin is a desert.
She tells me to avoid the heat of summer and grasp spring-
Before the boys become men by the river
I lay in bed at night thinking about that rose
And her love for me.