Scarlet Fingers Poem by Donald Chance

Scarlet Fingers
The rusty shears neatly snipped
ruby red roses.
Arranged as a centerpiece,
passing by many times,
I see them - they are watching me,
as if possessing eyes.
Boldly staring,
I could feel it - accusing:
Murder, they said.
A slow, increasing uneasiness crept inward,
feeling guilty like a reluctant executioner,
the rusty shears becoming a guillotine,
lopping off heads,
then me collecting
for a centerpiece.
My fingers dripped scarlet - a trail leading
to the garden.
Not a moment to waste:
quick - remove the vase,
to the trash,
dig up the bushes,
burn the evidence.
And above all else
I must remember:
never to drop acid
at home alone.