It begins in the head and the mirror
Big, shiny and bright yellow, flowing
Right through the heart, red, pouring
From the tip of fingers in blue print.
It came too with a pen and a paper
Firm and bold when the ink flowed
But soon it would run and taper
Blots and scribbles became the order
It unwinds with dreams in turbulent lines
Blurring out with clotted ink blue
Drawing wobbly circles without clue,
Leaving me with smeared scripted fears
It resolves then in soiled leaves, folding
In letters that tears up burning pages.
But the only thing red is me, calling
I don’t know what I’m writing.
