Poem: The Roses of love

What is it?

I've never seen Love before,
It's a figment of the imagination,
yet a disturbing force of passion,
often times a bloody passion.

When I see love, I see a face.

The face is Black, a dark Black,
a face devoid of wrongdoing,
yet brutalized with punishment.

Tears!

Tears are pouring out of the dark eyes of this face,
tears of the heart being incessantly shredded,
yet unable to stop beating.

When I see love, I see a fist.

The paragon of masculinity,
pounding into flesh,
pounding into the face,
yet neither is a traumatizing,
as the pounding into the heart.

Blood is just the roses of love.

It's an accessory to the screams and tears,
a decoration this face is well accustomed to.