He's seeing red as it

spills upon the page,

as it is in tooth and

claw

 

It's as bad as any

chemical dependence

and worse still,

even less to do about it

 

Grief eats grief

in this garden, and

to him, even the

daisies are red

 

Nothing for it,

just an old, worn

coat,

emblazoned with the

places he used to

be

 

Backwards is a

treacherous way to

go,

behind him lies

a wasteland of

red

 

as the words on

the page,

the diagnosis of

crimson

catches up,

a galvanizing

shudder

escapes him,

while he

patiently awaits

...

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