You lay upon a bed of roses,
gazing into a red, tender face.
Drifting to sleep on petals soft,
unaware of what shadows trace.

But slumber fades, red turns to black,
as masks slip off, revealing truth.
Faces of roses shift, astonished—
once warm, now cold, now strange, uncouth.

Their words cut deep, their hearts drift far,
leaving sorrow etched on your skin.
In pain’s embrace, you find solace,
learning to guard what lies within.

So now, you wear a mask like theirs,
a mirrored face, both bold and bare.
Different, yet hauntingly the same—
a hidden heart, a secret flame.

You vowed never again to trust,
never to mistake black for red,
or see the grey as pure and white,
keeping distant, masked instead.

No more gardens would you tend,
no roses left...