To the Color Red

Of warmth, of passion —

Shades of violent emotion,

The fluids that do so freely flow from

The partition of some weak flesh,

Dictated by the careful, careless drawing

Of steel and hate.

And like rose, or ruby, or other

So-called signs of love,

These hues must blind the lover, as to let him

See not rainbows, but only crimson

and scarlet deceptions, cloaked in a

Fiery display of vivid illusion —

And even to the well read,

Such washes of brilliance and

Inescapable vibrancy can, and do,

Drown out the pitiful (now only) whimpering

Of a choked reason; for these wavelengths

Coil around the strongest hearts, and leave

No air for a tempered mind to breathe.

To paint a mind with this red would be

To discolor the cold, the frozen intentions

Of an even resolve. And though odd to

Wish of this, I must

Nonetheless succumb to the blaze

Of uncontrolled desire, hot lust.

To deny its entry would leave

Me to be blue — and who

Would be so cruel to lose out on the longest shade,

Without which we would be unable to

Orange with the quiet sunset, and

Purple with rage against the darkening night?