Red captivated me. I wanted to let go, but couldn’t. Fires seem distant, it’s the burning that is so real.
I try to touch the red within me again. It doesn’t seem so intangible anymore. It feels like bubbles, alien-friendly, in deep sleep. My hand is over the water, or over a liquid that I shoulndn’t, but dare to touch. Fingertips reach the surface of liquid, and liquid reach out to me. It rises without a voice or a swirl. No danger is imminent in it. It sticks to fingers, devouring them one by one, until it has my arm in a clasp. This time I don’t want to run. I know this is wrong, but I feel it isn’t.
I’m swallowed whole in its belly. There is nothing to see. Within red, there is black. Everything is dark. A hint of what life is really like, motherly womb. I try to move, but red does nothing to prevent me from exploring it. It’s harder to breathe anytime I show hesitation. It doesn’t want me to hesitate. I go against it. Suddenly, everything shifts. Within the red is something. Its presence isn’t foreign, but its touch is. It’s around my wrist. I want it to let go. Everything is alien now. I want to run away. I must. It will devour me, I can feel it. It wants me. I want to run. I do so.
I’m out of liquid. Underneath the surface I can see the movement of alien entity. There is nothing on my wrist or arm, but it stings. It burns. The fire is within, but burning is what’s real.
The experience leaves me unsettled. I want to know more about red in me. I’m drawn to it. I look at my ceiling. It’s old, but not as old as the feeling I have. I want to return again. I will pay the price.
Mention: You can apply for custom poems written by me for you. There are still 15 free slots open. This means that I’ll write you a poem for free. You can contact me on this matter on my email:firstname.lastname@example.org and we can discuss the details privately. Here’s a poem by me from upcoming poetry collection Red:
Blessed are the leafs for they are not
the residue but the salt of the Sky, they
wither to Earth’s gentle reign, only to be
Man isn’t blessed, for his salt is his doing,
and he is often measured not through the
residue, but through which was his own
Sky and Earth
Leafs are noble, they never squirm, unlike
the squirm-breather of ravaged landscapes
of a never-told rose
The face is often what is met first, but behind
the eyes is where the roses glow
The hand reaches, further than wish of
sunken expeditions, further than a man
who almost lost a woman clings to fields
of secretive embarrassment, for our senses
are dying candles, burning bright as we
uncover the value of flower almost picked
to death by a rushing hand
Leafs reach for nothing, they are, but
man can’t never just be
For he carries the burden of wet soil,
waiting to sprout a flower, a beast he is
so afraid to handle
In him is more than a fire, a burning,
warmth of the kiss and shared bed,
warmth of blood in the throat, warmth
of melting reason
The warmth from which crystal lakes
becomes rivers, one with whom we
can never bargain
Man is bound to his red
Michael of Moon
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