Unread roses

It is one of those dark mornings
when the rain runs the sky
in a frantic race.

I am wet and weary
and impatient like the wind
to open exits you’d never entered.

I ignore amber and red lights,
cut the darkness
with mind scissors,
retrace all you said to me
in that foul night
of red rimmed eyes.

Your accusations
still scream into my time zone,
and I nurse my bruises,
violet moons.

It is one of those mornings,
when the sun is in hiding,
when green lights take flight
and all the red roses
remain unread.