I really like red, the colour of passion, for it is passion that fuels me, partly, alongside defiance.
Red, like wine, like blood, surging through your veins, like iron and steel freshly plucked from the flames of the oven, ready to be shaped into something new.
Like the flame of the eternal phoenix, spreading contrasting red and orange across a blue sky as it rises from its ashes and soars amongst the clouds, with each death and rebirth finding new heights.
Red, as the spark ignites in your cheek when there's a flaming tornado being spun inside.
When the cold, damp blue of doubt, fear and calm give in to the warm light, being replace by a firestorm of passion, a rush of blood to specific body parts the author of this text would rather not mention, for reasons unknown.
When rust supersedes the shine, and shows the wear of time on something subject to use.
When one more second or minute is all that matters in the grand scheme of things, and your will is able to overthrow reason, when desire overcomes need, often becoming it.
When oxygen rushes to your muscles out of no particular need, but your breath still won't slow down, even accelerating as if to make some point, ever unwavering in the face of its own mild discomfort.
Red is often the colour of love too, burning deeply and brightly, igniting the darkness and deepest corners of ones soul, a feeling as known as it is mysterious, as strange as it is familiar, and as shallow as it is deep.
Red is a colour that spills and taints, a colour that flows to provide warmth, that gushes to vibrantly stand out of both white and black, that jumps in the eyes and sticks.
I like red, the colour of passion, and I might just like you too, depending on your true colours.
Some poets, writers and artists were drunks, maybe because words flow easily as alcohol flows to the bloodstream, but I am none of those, bar an infantile demeanor surging through an ever-changing body, fascinated by the deep crimson of wine on a dreary Tuesday afternoon, wondering if a better place in the world could be found for my head, searching for a lap willing to accept it, for a mind to lay my thoughts with.
Addendum, to the person reading this: I wrote some of this thinking of you, though I shall not disclose which parts of it. You know who you are, as Red is a name I've given you.
Some poets, writers and artists were drunks, maybe because words flow easily as alcohol flows to the bloodstream, but I am none of those, bar an infantile demeanor surging through an ever-changing body, fascinated by the deep crimson of wine on a dreary Tuesday afternoon, wondering if a better place in the world could be found for my head, searching for a lap willing to accept it, for a mind to lay my thoughts with.
Addendum, to the person reading this: I wrote some of this thinking of you, though I shall not disclose which parts of it. You know who you are, as Red is a name I've given you.
