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.