Do you not see the watery clouds,
Blazing and bleeding on western sky—
So red they seem like rose petals
Strewn across a bed.
One moment I am filled with sacred water,
Another I am awash in crimson roses
Lying on Impressionist garden path.
Can you not sense this little death?
Hold me close, as one might hold a rose.
Bleed as I do, when pricked by thorn.
Be among clouds, drifting so high
Your heart doesn’t work to love.