Red is my blood, platelets,
as Autumn's leaves,
as my dreams, hopes,
from a breathing person,
who dies, lives, writes, fails, rewrites.
Red is a blue's opposite:
the blue's heat.
Is the irrigation of wings' veins,
I ought to have, a sky would be,
dawn's color, the flame of life,
a desire of a peaceful heart, that
bombs red through time.
I am Red, even though
no eye can see it;
a dream is here, nobody can see it:
as my blood as my end.
And, maybe there's no end only stars.
And stars are a pipe dream of dreams.