Changing to Pink

Red boils itself in blood

running down the world in rivers

rolling madly like

hot rage. Like the steam

hissing out of the nostrils of a

charging rhinoceros.

But then red changes into pink,

a more tantalizing tint, and simmers

seductively, first a finger,

then a wink,

then merely a smile until

all traces of raving passion are replaced

by a pale pink bow over

a pale white face. The face

recedes into the background, a mere wisp

of white.

But if red becomes a shade,

and skin delivers no promise to withhold,

red bursts like lava from the soul

screaming and billowing from

behind curtain corners, shaking

away debris and mixing the dusty

air until people see first through a

film of red, then black,

like all the lights have gone out,

leaving everyone to claw their way

through the darkness.