Through the misty twilight of November
grey and formless hazy shades
embrace my path as I descend
deeper into a dusky vale
deeper to where I find my road
forking into two.

To my left, the setting sun
cradles the trees in golden warmth,
enfolds their naked branches
in mourning vows of love.

To my right, the sable limbs
of trees are sweating pale raindrops,
blackened rose hips are trembling
in a desolate breeze.

Beside frayed leaves, the sharp promise
of thorns defies the silent sky,
while the worn petals of a last rose
cling like neglected tear drops.

Shuddering with anticipation,
I see this road strewn
with dark ruby puddles.
I know their blood is mine,
and I sense that something within me
that something that tells me to spill it,
tells me to spill it now.

I stand poised
between two roads,
crimson roses beckon
from pools so dark and deep
I know their liquid can mirror
the lakes of pain in my eyes.

Crimson tides of eloquence
pull my aching soul with glistening solace,
and in an instant
that seems forever
the terrible beauty of blood
stands poised against the vision
of a pale and fragile face.

Eyes deeper than the ocean
flash before my mind,
an averted look more vulnerable
than my slender wrists.

With feet that seem nailed to the ground,
I turn and take a stumbling
lunge towards the light,
leaving behind a crimson
unshed trail of regretful relief.