The Colour Red

It shall be the happiness after tomorrow,

Perhaps;

Let off by some sigh, but

The wind here grows only stronger,

And sun’s scattered beams,

Take leaves red and rub their sallow,

So now they must gleam green;

Watching us with orphan eyes,

As we sit suspended together,

Unsure;

If dusk would spill its secret dust,

Or would it be just the two of us,

Our mutual darkness;

And a ceremonious incense,

That just wouldn’t light.

There’s a fire raging below,

Like a red gash from a scimitar;

Bleeding black earth,

Burning the sky,

And filling our caress with tender smoke;

I look up distracted,

And find its careless smudge-

A crescent moon that barely breathes,

A crimson drop incompleting the horizon;

I taste a familiar tinge that drowns,

All the other bleeding senses out,

A drowning vortex of vertigo,

Calls an unfamiliar name to echo;

That, and the many uses,

Of the colour red.