Flying Glass Shards

The mess you made, was
apocalyptic.
How the debris streaks
like a fireball.

The blood becomes
a sheer truth.
Moist, sticky on
your hands.

Up in your sleeves
the past hed planted
many wrecks,
You will not be able to retrieve.

The burnt-out roses
emit a beautiful odour.
The phoenix rises again
from the colored ash.