Red

 

 

 

There are deep,

angry red marks

on my flesh

and my mind

and my soul.

Marked and measured,

set aside,

for torment is acceptable,

no;

it is required.

 

I was sold a blue sky,

a yellow sun

and a green tree.

Red was not blood;

red was firetrucks

and racecars

and the Montreal Canadiens’ sweater,

but it was not blood,

it never came with a cost.

 

As I grew up,

that blue sky

and white clouds

and yellow sun;

they become the lie.

They become the metaphor,

but the blood,

it was everywhere.

 

Red streaks stained the eyes

and revealed the costs of desire.

A fine arterial mist

sent the crowds

into a frenzy.

Fear became currency

and lust a token,

parlayed into a new order

and I lost the dream

in one last game of chance.

 

It was all supposed to be

so simple.

Those basic geometries

that were a life I lived.

Yellow circle,

Grey square with brown triangle,

green circle with brown rectangle.

Half the background blue,

half green.

Heaven and Earth

and everything in between.

 

Blood red started with an apple on the tree.

Appropriate,

don’t you think?

Now,

there’s drops of red everywhere.

Hand prints smeared down

abandoned corridors of time,

as if to say;

“Don’t come this way.

There is nothing but death here.”

 

So I wandered

into red redemption,

colorblind,

awash in a sea of forgiveness.

I have learned

so much more

than scriptures.

I know now,

that the picture I drew

was not a lie.

Time has a way

of making the strangest things

come true.

And blood,

blood belongs inside you.

 

HG – 2017