Denial at Death

Ignorance of a futile substance
Inhaling a sight that’s been tainted by red,
Red thoughts and red visions,
Maybe vermilion, it’s similar
But never accepted was crimson
“It was never angry,
It was always love.”

Stabbing nails into vulnerable palms
Watched the blood, (t’was red, not crimson)
As it descended on vivid, blue veins
This colour was not seen, but a mere thought
I saw the blood from an emerald perspective
And wanted to witness it expand
In two grotesque puddles
This was out of love, of course
“We were never angry”.

Perfection, a month back in Silhouetted prominence
T’was never even pink, which represented folly
T’is in present, a macabre cannibal affair
And in life, it’s an aim to hit the target
Not to soar too high nor sink into moving mirrors
You are my ghoul, sharpening the arrow
To hit said target, you must retrieve the bow
Which in my stomach, it resides.
To get it, you must manipulate me.
“I am already red.”

What is that, my love, you want to clench your fists,
Tease my vision, and carve one of God’s creations?
And in return, I receive a place in the Holy Kingdom?
Without a heart? Literary, and metaphorically,
Even my perfume is senseless by your hatred
Naïve ignorance of a futile substance,
As known as, a feeling:
“Admittedly, it is crimson.”