Crimson Red

Are those the same crimson red?
With vocal display of Black pink’s Rosé,
Why stay wrapped in the warmth of a cup of café,
When the world outside calls to you today?

Have they never been truly read?
Their sight sends all senses fray,
I never get the words they say,
Even though I can never look away.

Down again they go, my heart on a sled,
This secret of a feeling causes deep dismay.
Must it end in the same familiar cliché?
Those crimson reds—my future, or my decay?