poems

Red
keeps the vessel alive
safeguarding her lair of gems
with twisted veins
and yet,

Red
mere servant to mortal fate
gets tricked by outsiders into
drawing fangs at ghosts
and so,

Red
with no one to blame
but her own gullibility
drips saliva onto iron
until it all rusts.

It would've been easier
if my legs weren't legs at all
and my arms weren't arms.
If I could cut off my feet
grounding me to my desires
and my hands
holding onto earthly possessions.
If I could dissolve this tainted blood
and scatter my ashen mind
into the nothingness,
I belong.