Roses Are Red, All Else Is Just Complicated Poem by Boitumelo Oliphant

Woke up in the morning, be-buzzled by a strange comfort of an apparent artefact scent doffed upon my reality,
Without much tangle I drift from this tally graciously notched in a bubble of ego imagined in the emptiness of things.
I call onto what glory I find in this enigma. Comfort that tables glossy around a passim of reality.
Be it known, more deterioration befuddled with what dims extra care for the unseen, I remain close to sight still.
Mother earth! I call you damned for in you, children are swallowed, and in my dreams a dashing of shackles I see.
Though I am without sight, fate I recognise still.
In lines with damnation inherent in the very being of my being I resist the fallacy of an altered state of being.
Dropping dead seemed intuitively dimmable on the rise of a new dawn. Inevitable it is yet still remains an aborted deck pillaring my cognisance.
I abandon every one of them and consider the reality that is you. Uncompromisingly ditched with punts of a sweet aroma you stay,
Everything else might be complicated (including this poem) , but my future with you is not.