Red Street

Massacre of love When the blade of hatred severs love’s own head, When tales of pain repeat, unending, said, When from the cursed grip of time, death drips slow, When the darkened earth forgets the gems below, When spring itself feels stitched to seasons wrong, When the axe defends the pine—and calls it strong— Do not ask me, unaware of pain, for tender rhyme. A poem that does not bleed is shame to time.