Bright red:

Bright red attracts the eye like moth to flame,
Like scarlet cape to raging bull that gasps for breath,
The cunning cloth deceives the eye that it will maim,
And paves the precious path to certain death.

The flowing cape becomes blood red:

Again comes red, comes redness, glowing, spurting wildly,
Knees buckle mildly, no more the seed to sow, no more untame,
Red oozes to a final trickle,
Down to the waiting earth from whence it came.

Within a blink, its brightness lost, red turns a rusting brown direction,
Then darkens to the grimy black that beckons night,
The black of that strange madness that absorbs the sun, forbids reflection,
Devours and despoils the clear whiteness of the mourning light.

The scent of redness:

The dregs of red, alluringly quiescent,
Fill the air with death's delicate perfume,
A metaphor of silken scarf, once luminescent,
Now spoiled and stained, and beckoning the tomb.

Deception reigns:

Is it the redolence of red that so dazzles with its gladness?
How can mere pigment paint such torrid lies?
Does the painter need the ivory black of madness
To show me that the flower always dies?

Turning to dust, the flower dies in each deserted heart.

How calmly blood-red eases into empty blackness,
With matador's sly, skilled, deceptive art.
Allowing new bloom fragile, true exactness,
The crimson cape became the poisoned dart.

© 2003 _____Muldoon Elder