red

morning painted red with broad-brush strokes
not the red of anger dark and sweaty
nor the red of embarrassment naked before the class
not the red of blood stark against a midnight snow
nor the red of crumbling bricks held together with gravity
not the red of sunset colored by smoggy skies
nor the red of maple leaves autumn whispering to the air
not the red of Bloody Mary hangovers hair of the dog
nor the red of candied apples poisoned by mother goose
not the red of correction a generation’s writer’s block
nor the red of frustration when landslides block the course

it was the red of solitude loneliness rendering the seams
it was the red of sorrow corrupted eroding flesh
it was the red of martyrdom self-fulfilling prophecies
it was the red of anguish imploding in mistrust
it was the red of yesterday another moment another scar
it was the red of heartache seeping tears of blood
it was the red of fire raging in a body tormented
it was the red of madness mindless incoherent rants
it was the red of despair drowning in cobweb pools
it was the red of broken glass turning flesh into butter

morning painted red with broad-brush strokes
rendered upon a torn and neglected canvas