Greenhouse

If roses are red, then she is crimson eruption.
Displayed as an aura engulfing the garden
In scarlet silhouette.

A sun-kissed spectacle and
Inducer of blissful passion.
Surrounded by saffron and song,
She is crystal sensation

With each radiant second, she captures eyes.

If violets are blue, then I am tragic melancholy.
Exhibited as an ache swallowing the garden
In dreadful despair.

A frost-bitten phantom and
Inventor of cringing loneliness.
Abounded by wrath and stone,
I am concrete numbness

With each grinding second, I miss her.