Crimson Red

Are those the same crimson red? With vocal display of Black pink’s Rosé, Why stay wrapped in the warmth of a cup of café, When the world outside calls to you today? Have they never been truly read? Their sight sends all senses fray, I never get the words they say, Even though I can never look away. Down again they go, my heart on a sled, This secret of a feeling causes deep dismay. Must it end in the same familiar cliché? Those crimson reds—my future, or my decay?