Roses are red. 
Violets are blue. 

In the shadows, burdened with pain, 
You must crawl deep into the cadaverous dimness of the night. 
The camera focuses on the petal soaked in cappuccino of sorrows. 

As violet capitals, 
It weeps to the stars in the night above. 

With their pains, only cannon fodder. 
Melancholy, like carbon monoxide, 
Fills the air in between the darkness. 
Smiling and dying inside like catatonia, 
For pilots in Catch-22. 

They catwalk in the shadows, 
Though they may grieve, 
Violets still find a way to bloom 
In the chandelier of darkness.