Hues of red

Cold and sharp against the pale white

Exposes the crimson red

The red of angst, the red of sadness, the red of pain and maybe even danger

And red should surely be reserved for the sad

Because love might falsely be advertised as red

But now in its grave it lays cold and dead

So, who the hell even knows?

Rather red remains both for the zealous and the benumbed

Because it is often the most fervent who turn most detached

The purest of us grow callous

Not only to the world around

But to our own hearts and souls

Because it’s the only way we know to cope

And that is why in that moment

For no fault of her own

She stands all alone

In that moment of piercing sadness

Hopelessness is all she bleeds.