Red like the paint on your fingertips and lips,
Like your cheeks in the cold when you were whole, not this.
Now here you lie lifeless, broken and bleeding,
And I sit with wounded and heavy heart grieving,
As this same luscious red flows like sap from a tree,
Seeping slowly into the floor and the cracks underneath,
And your body, these four walls, the ceiling, my hands,
All stained with the colour, now isn't DEATH grand?
Just look what I've created it's as fine as rare art,
Because you are my masterpiece, you are the star.
So alluring like an abstract painting but in fact,
Not difficult to decipher so no one will ask,
"What is the meaning?" No, by far this is my best,
Handiwork dressed as new, something fresh.
The drapes, this whole space, the sheets and the bed,
All the colour of you beautiful lady in red!
J.S.