The roses; the roses

                The roses; the roses
                cloud up our minds
                with assumptions.

                It’s not our business,
                really; but we
                can’t help staring.
               
                Just one simple slip-up;
                black-blue roses
                revealed, unmasked.

                “He gave her those roses,”
                Mary says in
                a quiet voice.

                But we will consider
                that maybe it
                isn’t his fault.

                Maybe they’re her roses;
                it’s possible,
                for all we know.

                So we will walk away
                much too afraid
                to do anything
                but whisper,

                Because we’ll never stop
                telling ourselves
                desperately--
                assumptions,
               
                They’re only assumptions--
                never to act,
                only stand by
               
                Looking upon her soul
                as if it is
                some mystery
               
                Never to be solved.