Red Rag To A Bull Poem by Mark Heathcote

No sentiments found here will smelter a tear
A torch, a flame of desire
I am afraid my passions have all been extinguished.
And only the sleet on another night's sleep,
Still tepid lingers in my eyes.

The iris of which reddens to a blotch of blood
The blood of a rose that will never again, open.
That is now too chill, too froze, too ill
It will keep its hearts fire.
Till the thorn of love, throbs blooded once more.