Red
Arrange the ones that bare the marks. Sometimes it runs, but never dry. It's empty that way. It's like the feelings that you love to hate or the symptoms that never appear while poisoning you slowly... It's red, and sleek to touch and smells of a burnt velvet winter. Caging in place what wants to be captured and the release of what desires change at the center of it all. Can you taste it? The coppery-iron I mean. These words are meaningless and lack reason as much as the lack purpose. There is no true desire, here nor there. Scream if you truly can, but can you? It flows to and fro and it's fraught with desire, passion, and anger to fuel it's need to burn. Burn, slowly my love. For when you wake this daydream will be over and that which once was will be no more. Breathe will be gone and so will you. The soul of the vessel is a life energy that offense me. Offense my very existence as it is stained by that which is opposed to the obvious! So crucify me, like the
